


involuntary ties

by kusuos



Category: Haikyuu!!, Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone Is Gay, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Prince Sakusa Kiyoomi, RWRB AU, Rated M for my god these bitches gay, alternate universe - red white and royal blue, kind of slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28561650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kusuos/pseuds/kusuos
Summary: "The words hit Atsumu hard, for Kiyoomi is perhaps the bravest one of them all, and it hurts that he doesn't know it."or a Sakuatsu AU based off of Red White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston
Relationships: AtsuHina if you squint, Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Kita Shinsuke/Ojiro Aran, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 45
Kudos: 105





	1. one

Atsumu’s grown pretty familiar with the white house roof. On the corner, tucked beneath a corner of loose paneling, there’s a message etched there, perhaps with a key or a pocketknife. He discovered it during his first week of living there, but he hasn’t told a single soul about it. 

It says: **Rule #1: Don’t get caught.**

Traditionally the east and west bedrooms are reserved for members of the First Family. Atsumu has the east one and Osamu uses the west. back when they were growing up, before they were the sons of the president of the United States, you could tell what phases they were in by looking at what covered the walls. 

Osamu’s changed from one thing to the next, his remained mostly the same, action movie posters and volleyball trophies. It’s all gathering dust back home now. 

Now, his room is shades of gold black and red, cleaned to perfection, and photographed by _Vogue,_ styled by some famous interior decorator whose name he can’t remember. 

Typically, the president's children don’t stay in the White House past the age of eighteen, but Atsumu was starting at Georgetown that fall and it didn’t make sense to move security to a small one bedroom apartment. 

Osamu moved in too, and though he’d never admit it, Atsumu knows he moved in to keep an eye on him. He knows better than anyone else how much he gets off on being this close to the action, and he’s bodily yanked him out of the West Wing on more than one occasion.

Behind his bedroom door, he can put on a Bowie vinyl on the record player that sits on top of his dresser and no one can hear him humming along to “Kooks”. He can wear the reading glasses he swears he doesn’t need, he can relax and feel like he isn’t some amalgamation of press statements and public appearances. 

“Hey,” says a voice at the door, and he looks up to see his brother, Osamu, holding a plate and a stack of magazines. 

He grins. “What are they saying about me today?” 

Osamu grunts, spreading the magazines out on the bed. “No ones saying anything about you, ya scrub.” 

Atsumu elbows him and ruffles his hair, then grabs the nearest magazine. 

He hums absentmindedly as he flips through the pages. 

“ _In Touch_ says that you’re dating a French model, Samu, if only they knew.” he says with a laugh. 

He takes a picture of it and sends it to Suna, Osamu’s boyfriend. He’ll get a kick out of that one. 

Osamu reads the next one out loud. “They’re saying that you got your asshole bleached.” 

Atsumu mumbles, “That one’s true,” through a mouthful of Onigiri, and gets punched in the side as a response. 

“Do _US Weekly,_ ” Atsumu says. 

Osamu grunts and digs through the pile to find it, and his eyes light up to see that they made the cover. 

Atsumu smirks. “I look better than you here, ‘Samu. “

“We have the same face, dumbass.” 

“Sure,” Atsumu retorts, “But I wear it better.” 

Osamu swipes the plate of Onigiri away from him. “You fucking dumbass, no more food for you.” 

Atsumu lets out a whine. “I’ll tell Suna you were mean to me.” 

“He’ll just laugh at you.” Osamu looks down at the cover of the magazine again and comes to a realization. “Ooh, we can spend the whole day making fun of you tomorrow, and speaking of, what are you wearing?” 

Atsumu stares at him blankly. “For what?”

“The wedding.”

“What wedding?” 

Osamu makes a face at him. “I can’t believe you ‘Tsumu, the _royal_ wedding, you know, the British one, with the Sakusa prince and his actress fiance?” 

“That’s this weekend?”

“We leave tomorrow morning,” Osamu tells him. ‘I can’t believe that Kita hasn’t chewed you out about it yet.” 

“Shit,” he groans. “I knew I was forgetting something.” 

‘Is it really possible that you purposefully forgot about one of the biggest events we have to attend this year, just so you don’t have to see Sakusa Kiyoomi, your archnemesis?”

“Osamu, I’m the son of the president of the United States, and he’s a figurehead of the British empire, you can’t just call him my archnemesis.” He attempts to steal some Onigiri from the plate Osamu had taken from him but he slaps his hand away just before he can grab one. “Archnemesis implies he’s actually worthy of being my rival, and not that he’s just some stuck up asshole who’s probably the product of inbreeding.” 

“He’s adopted, ‘Tsumu, you should know that.” 

Atsumu rolls his eyes. 

“Well, you don’t have to like him, you just have to put on a happy face and not cause an international incident at his brother’s wedding.”

“My face is always happy,” Atsumu replies, putting on a fake smile. 

Osamu shoves him and he almost falls off the bed. 

* * *

If Atsumu’s being honest, flying in private jets never gets old, not even three years into his mother’s term. 

It’s surreal, being the son of Japanese immigrants who grew up in an average home in east Texas, that he’s now cruising thousands of feet over the Atlantic ocean with his feet up and reclining in a cushioned leather seat. 

Hinata Shoyo, the son of the vice president, is bent over his phone, probably playing Subway Surfers. Him and Atsumu have a thing, they act like they’re hooking up or they’re together in order to bait the press, trying to see if they can get the word gay into the headlines somewhere. 

It hasn’t worked yet, but they do it all the same, getting drunk in their hotel rooms and watching old volleyball games while occasionally making moaning noises at the wall to the reporters they know are on the other side. 

Meanwhile, Bokuto, his mother’s secret service agent, is embroidering flowers onto a denim jacket. Atsumu is pretty sure he could kill a man with the very same needle, he’s an ex Navy SEAL who’s rumored to be deadly. 

Meian, another secret service agent, is seated next to Hinata, trying to beat his Subway Surfers high score. 

This just leaves Osamu, who’s curled up around his phone in another leather seat, scrolling through the headlines again, and probably sending the funny ones to Suna. 

“Anything interesting?” he asks his brother. 

“Can you believe they spent seventy five _thousand_ dollars on the cake alone?” 

“That’s just depressing.” 

“ _And_ apparently Prince Kiyoomi is going without a date, and people are shocked because they thought that he was dating some Belgian Heiress or whatever last month.” 

Atsumu snorts. It’s hard for him to believe that people are actually surprised that she dumped him. “Maybe the female population of Europe finally realized that he’s as boring as a slip of paper and doesn't have a personality.” 

Hinata puts his phone down, looks him dead in the eye and says, ‘Are you going to ask him to dance, then?” 

Atsumu’s glad he wasn’t drinking something then, he would’ve spit it out, he never thought _Hinata_ of all people would do him like that. 

He rolls his eyes to try and act like he isn’t shocked at the comeback, and tries to imagine dancing with Sakusa Kiyoomi. “In your dreams,” he retorts. 

Osamu laughs. “Aw, ‘Tsumu, you’re blushing!” 

Atsumu throws a decorative pillow at him. 

There are a few things about Atsumu, Osamu, and Hinata that new hires are briefed about immediately. Hinata’s sort of boyfriend, Atsumu’s middle of the night requests for snacks, Osamu’s space in the kitchen, and Atsumu’s long standing grudge against the youngest prince of England. 

It’s not a grudge, really. It’s not even a rivalry. It’s a prickling, unsettling annoyance. It makes his skin crawl and his stomach flutter. 

The tabloids, and the rest of the world had tried to cast him as the American equivalent of the prince, since the White House is the closest thing that America has to royalty. It’s never really seemed fair to him. His image is all charm and genius built from the ground up, and Kiyoomi’s is inherited chivalry and charity events. 

Maybe it is technically a rivalry, he thinks. But whatever. 

“Shoyo,” he says in lieu of thinking about _stupid_ Prince Kiyoomi, “Ask Tobio to run the numbers on this one.” 

Kageyama Tobio, Hinata’s _someone_ who falls between the lines of best friend and boyfriend, is a genius and getting his degree in data sciences at MIT. He’s basically a human C-3PO, like from Star Wars, and he’ll occasionally jokingly compute the odds for random events.

Hinata’s phone buzzes a few minutes later and he reads the message aloud. “Risk assessment: FSOTUS failing to check himself before he wrecks himself will result in greater than five hundred civilian casualties. Ninety-eight percent probability of Prince Kiyoomi looking like a total dreamboat. Seventy-eight percent probability of Atsumu getting himself banned from the United Kingdom forever.”

Osamu cackles and Atsumu grins, and the plane soars on to London. 

* * *

The ceremony seems to last forever. It’s not like Atsumu can’t appreciate a good wedding, a good declaration of love, it’s just that the eldest Sakusa prince is bland as a Disney movie love interest and his now wife is bland as a doll. 

It’s as interesting as a business transaction, there’s no drama, which is what Atsumu lives for. 

It feels like years until he’s seated between Osamu and Hinata, snagging a glass of champagne from a waiter and downing it instantly. 

He’s not going to be able to get through this thing sober. 

He watches Prince Kiyoomi dance with some girl he’s sure he’s seen before, but whose name he can’t place and glares. Why does he have to be so good at everything? 

Atsumu’s never told anyone, but he saw Prince Kiyoomi for the first time when he was twelve. He only ever thinks about it when he’s drunk. He saw a him spread in one of Osamu’s tabloids, his dark curls and the two moles above his left eyebrow blown up to take up two whole pages. 

But then came the first time he met Kiyoomi-- the first cool, detached words he said to him—and Atsumu guessed he had it all wrong, that the pretty, flung-open boy from the picture wasn’t real. The real Kiyoomi is beautiful, distant, boring, and closed. This person the tabloids keep comparing him to, whom he compares himself to, thinks he’s better than Atsumu and everyone like him. He can’t believe he ever wanted to be anything like that.

He spots the object of his reflections across the ballroom and makes a beeline for him. He looks bored, in that high and mighty disinterested way of his, and he can’t resist the urge to call Kiyoomi’s bluff. 

“Atsumu,” the prince says. “I wondered if I’d have the pleasure to see you again.” 

His British accent is slight, almost unnoticeable, he remembers he was raised in Japan before he was adopted, but Atsumu catches traces of it in the way he speaks. 

“Looks like ya got lucky.” 

“Definitely,” Kiyoomi says through a tight smile. 

The most annoying thing of it all is that he knows Kiyoomiu hates him, he’s just too above everything to act like he does. He’s too perfect, like a mannequin, and Atsumu wants to poke at him until he comes to life and hits back. 

“Do you ever get tired of just pretending that you’re better than all of the rest of us humans? You’re like a fucking robot, Omi.” 

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “You’re obviously drunk, Atsumu, maybe switch to water for a while. And don’t call me that.” 

“I’m just saying, Atsumu says, resting an overly friendly elbow on Kiyoomi’s shoulder, which isn’t as easy as he’d like it to be since he has about three infuriating inches of height on him. “You could try to act like you’re having fun. Occasionally.”

Kiyoomi laughs ruefully. 

“Should I?” Atsumu says. He pushes aside the thought that maybe the wine is what gave him the nerve to stomp over to him in the first place and makes his eyes as coy and angelic as he knows how. “Am I offending you? Sorry I’m not obsessed with you like everyone else. I know that must be confusing for you.”

“Do you know what?” Kiyoomi says. “I think you are.”

His mouth drops open, while the corner of Kiyoomi’s turns smug and almost a little mean.

“Only a thought,” he says, tone polite. “Have you ever noticed I have never once approached you and have been exhaustively civil every time we’ve spoken? Yet here you are, seeking me out again.” He takes a sip of his champagne. “Simply an observation.”

“What the-” Atsumu starts. 

‘Have a lovely evening, Miya.” Kiyoomi turns and walks off. 

It drives Atsumu _nuts_ that he thinks he gets to have the last word. He grabs Kiyoomi’s shoulder to turn him back and he visibly flinches at the touch, pushing Atsumu off of him, and the next thing he knows, he’s falling, tripping backwards into the table holding the massive wedding cake that cost more than his car. 

He watches as the cake tilts and falls, an avalanche of buttercream coming down. He grabs Kiyoomi’s arm for balance, but all it does is send them tumbling back into the smushed pile of cake. 

The room goes silent as they fall, and Kiyoomi’s champagne glass has shattered and spilled all over both of them. He notices there’s a small on Kiyoomi’s strong cheekbones, a tiny bit of blood dripping down from it. 

For a second, all he can think is at least he’s back in the spotlight. 

Then, he thinks his mother, the president, is going to murder him in cold blood, and _oh shit,_ Tobio was right.

Besides him, he hears Kiyoomi mutter, “Oh my fucking God,” and he dimly registers it’s the first time he’s ever heard the prince swear.

The flash from someone’s camera goes off, and he realizes he’s massively fucked this up.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: there's a mention/description of a panic attack near the end of the chapter, please dont read if it's triggering for you

With a loud smack, Kita slaps a stack of magazines onto the table. 

Atsumu flinches and braces himself for the lecture.

“This is just what I saw on the way here this morning,” he says. “I don’t think I need to remind you I live two blocks away.”

He stares down at the headlines, all of them about the cake incident, and each one is paired with a photo of him and Kiyoomi flat on their backs, swimming in cake. 

“Are you sure that we shouldn’t be in the war room for this meeting?” he jokes, flashing a smile. 

Neither Kita nor his mother find it funny. The president gives him a withering glare over her glasses and Kita frowns down at him from where he’s standing at the edge of the table.

It’s not like he’s afraid of Kita, who’s his mother’s chief of staff and right hand man. He may seem stiff and serious, but he swears there’s a caring exterior under there somewhere. He’s more afraid of what his mother might do to him. 

They grew up close, talking about how they felt, but ever since she became president, it’s been less about feelings and more about international politics. He’s not sure which one is more important here. 

“Sources say that the two were spotted arguing minutes before the _cake-tastrophe,_ ” his mother reads out loud. “But royal insiders claim that the two’s feud has been there since they met at the summer olympics in Rio. 

She finishes reading the tabloid, it saying how they’re afraid that Atsumu is going to take the American route and start a violent altercation. 

He has no idea how accidentally falling into a cake could lead to anything violent, but the gossip rags will take anything that they have and run with it. 

She’s fallen silent, and Atsumu feels like he has to say something. “He started it,” he begins. “I didn’t even touch him really, he’s the one who pushed me into it.” 

His mother cuts him off. “The press doesn’t give a fuck about who started it. And honestly neither do I, I don’t have time for this right now.” 

She slides a stack of papers that are held together with a binder clip towards him. It’s filled with official looking documents and marked with sticky notes, the first one saying ‘terms of agreement’. 

“You,” she starts, “are going to make nice with Prince Kiyoomi. You’re leaving Saturday and you’re going to spend Sunday in England.” 

Atsumu blinks at her. 

“Kita will brief you on the rest, I have a meeting in five minutes.” With that she walks out the door, heels making clicking noises that fade as she heads down the hallway. 

They sit in silence for a second, then he snaps into action, gathering papers and spreading them out on the table. “Alright, here’s the deal, Atsumu. I worked really hard to get this all arranged so please try and get along with him; I don’t want to have to call all the stuffy royal advisors again.” 

Astumu still thinks the whole thing is stupid as hell, but he nods. 

“First off, the White House and the monarchy are going to release a statement saying that it was just a mishap.” 

Atsumu cuts him off. “And it was, why does there have to be a statement?” 

Kita keeps going like Atsumu isn’t even there. “And that you and Prince kiyoomi have actually been very good friends for the past couple of years.” 

Atsumu does a double take. 

Kita sighs. “Look, ‘Tsumu, we just need to get this mess fixed and this is the easiest way to get it done.” 

He sighs back but nods to let him know he’ll do it. 

“So Kiyoomi’s your new best friend,” Kita continues, “and you’re going to act like he’s hung the moon for you, I don’t care if you write mean things about him in your diary or rant about him to Osamu, just act like it in public.” 

He slides him a page covered in bullet points and data. It’s titled ‘HRH Prince Sakusa Fact Sheet’. 

“You’re going to memorize this, so that there’s no holes in this plan, okay?” 

Listed under hobbies is volleyball, and _finally_ something interesting Atsumu thinks to himself. He wonders what position he plays and wonders if he’s better than him. He probably is, fucking perfect prick that he is. 

“Does he get one of these for me?” Atsumu asks. 

Kita nods and slides another page over to him, this one lists the requirements for the weekend trip. 

It includes: 2 social media posts per day, one on air interview, two join appearances (one private and one public charity event). 

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. 

“Okay,” he says, taking the stack of papers from Kita. “I’ll do it.” 

Kita smiles at him warmly, and he thinks maybe it’s worth it just because of that one smile.

* * *

Atsumu expects Kiyoomi’s handler to be some stout, white, picture perfect englishman. The person who meets him with the security team at the airport is anything but that. 

He’s a tall and muscled black man who looks to be the same age as Kita. He greets the secret service agent that’s with him then turns to Atsumu. 

“Mr. Miya,” he says. “Welcome back to England. Ojiro Aran, Prince Kiyoomi’s equerry.” 

Atsumu has no idea what an equerry is but he nods and shakes the hand he’s extended.

“Right, “Aran says after Atsumu drops his hand awkwardly. “you’re going to come with me to drive to the athletics complex and there, Prince Kiyoomi will be photographed welcoming you to the country, so try to look happy to be here.” 

The bleach-blonde wonders whether or not the prince has just finished volleyball practice, curiosity stirring within him. No matter how much he despises a person, he can’t help but resist his passion for volleyball. 

Aran passes him a stack of papers and tells him to sign. It’s a non disclosure agreement. 

Atsumu thinks it’s a bit much for the royal family and wonders what kind of secrets they must have in order to have this much paperwork for a two day visit. 

He signs them anyways. It’s not like he’d tell anyone what happened except for Osamu and Hinata. 

They pull up outside the building and Atsumu leans against one of the brick walls. 

He freezes, wondering if his hair is still disgusting from the plane, he didn’t have time to fix it earlier. Oh well, it’s not like Kiyoomi will look any better. He’ll probably be gross and dripping with sweat. 

As if on cue, he comes walking out of the doors.

He definitely isn’t gross looking, dark curls falling into his face like he’s on a runway and he’s dressed in a pair of khakis and a button down, pretty similar to Atsumu’s own. 

“I can’t stand you,” Atsumu says as soon as Kiyoomi is close enough to hear him. 

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Hello, Miya,” he says. Atsumu really despises the few inches of height that Kiyoomi has on him right now, he’s so close it feels like he’s towering over him. “You look… sober.” 

“Only for his royal highness himself,” he retorts, half bowing for dramatic effect.

Kiyoomi’s eyes sharpen and he’s pleased to get a reaction out of him for once. 

“You’re too kind.” 

They shake hands and Atsumu pulls him into a bro hug, trying to milk it for the cameras. Kiyoomi stiffens at the contact and Atsumu notices, remembering that he’d done the same thing when he’d grabbed him at the wedding.

His hands are soft and his nails are perfectly trimmed, and it’s just another thing that Atsumu hates about him. 

There’s a royal photographer on the other side of the street so Atsumu grins and says, “Let’s get this over with.” through his teeth. 

“I’d rather get shoved into a cake again,” Kiyoomi says. His eyes are dark pools of ink and Atsumu desperately wants to punch him in his perfect face. 

Atsumu grumbles. “Go fuck yourself.” 

“There’s hardly enough time for that,” he replies, and Atsumu chokes on air, not expecting Kiyoomi to be one for dirty jokes. 

He lets go of the embrace as soon as the photographer looks down at his camera, pushing Atsumu away from him.

He doesn’t know why, but it hurts to be rejected like that, even by Kiyoomi. 

* * *

The palace feels haunted, it’s filled with stuff and people, but it doesn’t feel like anyone’s _lived_ there before.

He wanders into the kitchen that’s attached to the guest wing, on facetime with Hinata while he searches for snacks. Thankfully, there’s mochi ice cream in the freezer, he grabs a box and sets it out on the counter to thaw for a bit before he bites into it.

“What’s it like?” Hinata’s tinny voice comes through the speaker. The grainy image on his phone screen shows he’s at Tobio’s apartment, he can see Tobio moving around in the kitchen, probably cooking breakfast for both of them. 

“Weird,” Atsumu says. “I had to sign such a _massive_ NDA that I feel like I’m gonna stumble into something horrible.” 

Hinata giggles. “It’s probably just a secret lovechild. Or someone’s gay.” 

“Shoyo,” he laughs. “You’re always spreading the gay agenda, aren’t you.” 

That only makes Hinata laugh harder. “As I should be, ‘Tsumu, there’s not enough of us out there.” 

When they both stop laughing, Atsumu asks him: “Anyways, it’s pretty boring here, how are you? How’s Tobio doing?” 

Hinata’s face lights up as he starts talking about his sort of boyfriend. 

Atsumu grins watching him speak, but then drops it as soon as he hears there’s footsteps outside the hallway.

“Shit, sorry, Shoyo, but I gotta go, someone’s here.” 

He disconnects the call to see Prince Kiyoomi himself padding sleepily into the kitchen. 

He’s rumpled and half awake and has a horrible bed head. He’s wearing a gray shirt and a pair of green plaid pajama pants, and a pair of glasses on.

He looks surprisingly human, not like he’s runway ready the way he usually is, and he stops in his tracks when he sees Atsumu sitting on the countertop. 

“Sorry,” Kiyoomi says shyly. “I ran out of mochi ice cream and I knew they restocked your fridge.” 

Atsumu grins down at him, he likes where he’s sitting because it means the few inches of height the prince has on him are basically nonexistent. 

“That’s a dirty little habit you have,” he says. “Of stealing from your guests, that is.” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t miss a beat. “I only steal from the annoying ones.” 

Atsumu stares at him. “I didn’t know you wore glasses,” he says after a few seconds, to break the awkward silence. 

Kiyoomi takes his box of ice cream and makes a move to leave, not acknowledging Atsumu’s statement. 

* * *

The interview goes by in a flash, and it goes surprisingly well. The audience laughs right as Atsumu makes his jokes, and even Kiyoomi acts surprisingly warm towards him. 

They drive to the hospital the charity event is at, and they don’t speak to each other the whole time, acting like the strain of the interview wore them out. 

Atsumu, Kiyoomi, and the security team have taken over the entire floor that houses the children’s wing. Most of the kids have no idea who he is, but when Kiyoomi introduces him as the president’s son, they start flooding him with questions, like does he know Ariana Grande and does he listen to BTS. 

He doesn’t realize Kiyoomi’s not with him until the patient he’s with falls asleep and he can hear the prince’s voice through the curtain, he’s in the area next to him. He counts the pairs of feet on the floor and deduces that it’s just them, no photographers or reporters. 

He pulls the curtain back a little, not letting Kiyoomi know that he’s there so he can see what he’s like when he’s alone, and to his surprise, he’s braiding a girl’s hair, a hair tie held in between his teeth and a look of concentration on his face. 

Atsumu watches them like that for a while, listening as they talk about some band he’s never heard of. Kiyoomi’s genuinely smiling now. It suits him, Atsumu thinks, he should smile more often. 

He finishes with her hair, then walks out to see Atsumu standing in the hallways waiting for him. 

“Cute, “Atsumu says as soon as he sees him.

Kiyoomi flinches. “You saw that?” 

“Relax, Omi, I’m not going to tell anyone. And you’re cute when you smile.” 

He sighs at the nickname, but there’s the faintest hint of a blush on his face. “I thought you’d stop with the nickname, I thought it was a _only when I’m drunk_ thing, but I guess-” 

Atsumu’s about to tease him when three things happen in rapid fire. 

One: There’s a shout from somewhere across the hall. 

Two: There’s a loud pop that sounds a lot like gunfire.

Three: Bokuto grabs the two of them and shoves them into the nearest storage closet. 

“Stay down,” Bokuto grunts as he slams the door behind them. 

In the dark, Atsumu stumbles over a mop and the two of them go crashing to the floor in a tumble of limbs, and in his panic, he can’t help but think it mirrors the cake incident. At least they’re in private this time. 

“Fucking hell,” says Kiyoomi. 

Atsumu’s face is shoved into Kiyoomi’s soft, dark curls, and he’s laying partially on top of the prince. “You know,” he starts. “We have to stop ending up like this.” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, and Atsumu starts to notice that he’s shaking and his breathing is heavy. 

Atsumu climbs off of him immediately, remembering that Kiyoomi’s touch averse, and faces him. 

“Kiyoomi?” He uses his full name, and it feels shockingly intimate. “Can you hear me?” 

The dark haired man nods shakily and Atsumu exhales in relief. He guesses that Kiyoomi’s having a panic attack, Hinata used to get them before exams and important campaign events, so he’s used to talking people down from them. 

“I’m going to talk you through a breathing exercise, just follow what I say and focus on my voice, okay?” 

Kiyoomi nods again. 

They go through the exercise, breathing in and out for counts of four until Kiyoomi is finally stable enough to talk. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “Please- please don’t tell anyone about this.”

“I won’t,” says Atsumu, and they sit there in comfortable silence. 

It’s not chilling, or aggressive like it usually is, and Atsumu thinks that maybe he can learn to like Kiyoomi’s company. 

After a while, Bokuto comes to get them. 

“It was just a false alarm, some kid brought fireworks for their friend and they went off.”

He looks down at them, sitting next to each other in the tight space. “This looks cozy.” 

“Yep,” Atsumu says. ‘We’re really bonding.” 

* * *

Outside the palace, Atsumu rattles his phone number off to Kiyoomi, who grudgingly agrees to save it. 

“If we’re gonna keep this up, it’s going to get annoying to keep going through handlers. Just text me. We’ll figure it out.”

Kiyoomi stares at him, expression blankly bewildered, and Atsumu wonders how this guy has any friends.

“Right,” he says finally. “Thank you.”

“No booty calls,” Atsumu tells him, and Kiyoomi chokes on a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, please leave kudos and/or a comment if you enjoyed! updates will be sporadic, I'm just going back to school.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a few over the phone convos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i took so long to update, school is killing me. please leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed!

For the first time in a week, Atsumu is actually happy to see his google alerts. It helps that they did an exclusive with _People,_ just a few generic quotes about their “shared experiences” and the way they “cherish” their friendship. 

He’s not even sure if they have a friendship yet, but a small voice in the back of his head whispers that maybe he wants to. 

He walks across the campus to his car, dodging stares and whispers. 

Today’s lecture was on presidential sex scandals through history, and he texts Tobio: numbers on one of us getting involved in a sex scandal before the end of second term?

His response comes within seconds: **please don’t text me abt your dick, but 94% probability of it happening. btw, have you seen this?**

There’s a link attached with a tumblr post full of gifs of him and Kiyoomi on _This Morning._ The fist bump, a few faked smiles at each other, conspiraitonal glances. 

**Omfg,** one person reblogs, **just make out already.**

Atsumu laughs so hard he almost runs into someone.

* * *

He’s going through a giant stack of files on his desk when he gets the first text from Kiyoomi. 

**This fucker looks just like you.**

There’s a picture attached, one of a smirking fox that has lighter fur at the top of it’s head, and Atsumu has to admit it looks kind of like his bleach job. 

**This is Kiyoomi, by the way.**

Of course he texts with punctuation. He rolls his eyes, and adds his contact to his phone, saving it as Omi-Omi, and ignores the voice in the back of his head that thinks the way Kiyoomi texts is endearing. 

Atsumu finds a picture of a black cat that’s slumped over, mimicking Kiyoomi’s horrible posture that he only lets show when he’s not in front of the cameras, and sends it as a response. 

**and this one looks like you, omi,** he texts. 

Kiyoomi’s retort comes two days later. He sends a picture of a _The Daily Mail,_ the front headline stating, _Is Miya Atsumu going to be a father?_ The attached message reads, **But we were so careful, darling,** and it makes him laugh so hard that Kita kicks him out of their weekly debriefing with Osamu and Hinata. 

So it turns out he _can_ be funny and he’s more than a cookie cutter prince. Atsumu files that away in the little box in his head that’s dedicated to Kiyoomi facts. 

It also turns out that Kiyoomi is fond of texting him when he’s stuck in the middle of monotone royal functions. 

Atsumu wouldn’t say he _likes_ Kiyoomi, but he likes the way they fall into a routine of simple banter. He usually has a problem with talking too much, but he doesn’t give a fuck about what Kiyoomi thinks of him so he’s as loud and brash as he wants to be, and Kiyoomi responds with his quick and sharp wit. 

So, when he’s bored or needs something to do besides looking through files and scrolling through his email, he checks his phone for a notification that Kiyoomi’s texted him. 

He gets pictures of the floors wherever Kiyoomi is at the moment, random thoughts, like one about his opinions on different types of Japanese desserts, a picture of him in a Slytherin scarf (of course he’s a Slytherin), and updates about what his older brother Akiro, and sister, Naomi are up to. 

The people around him start to notice. “That’s not your ‘going through my email’ face,” Hinata notes, peering over his shoulder to try and get a peek at his phone screen. “You keep making that stupid face at your phone, what are you doing?” 

“Nothing,” he says. 

Hinata doesn’t believe him. 

“Don’t tell me you’re reading fanfiction about us without me, come on, ‘Tsumu.” 

“Shoyo I am _not-_ ”

Hinata laughs. “Come on, tell me. Or I’ll tell Osamu that you broke into his room and stole that one suit he likes.” 

Atsumu glares at him. “You little shit, you wouldn’t dare.” 

“I would.” 

Atsumu sighs. “I’m texting Kiyoomi.” 

Hinata screeches and he has to clap a hand over the smaller man’s mouth to stifle it. 

“Not a single word,” he says threateningly. “Not one.” 

Hinata manages to nod at him through his laughter, and it feels like a small victory when he walks away down the hall. 

* * *

“It’s public knowledge, it’s not my fault that you just found out,” his mother says to him pointedly as she paces down the hallway, heels clicking. Atsumu has to half jog to keep up with her. 

“You mean to tell me that each year, every fucking Thanksgiving, those damn turkeys stay in a luxury suite at the Willard? That this is what you guys decide to do with our taxpayer dollars? No wonder people hate the government.” 

“Yes, Atsumu, they have been,” she says back. “And it’s because of the corruption, not the turkeys.” 

“It’s still a disgusting waste of money!” 

“And there’s two turkeys on the way here!” 

Without missing a beat, he says, “Put them in my room.” 

His mother stares at him. “Are you hiding a turkey habitat up your ass? Where in this historically protected house is there room for two turkeys?” 

“Put them in my room. I don’t care.”

She outright laughs. “No.”

“How is it different from a hotel room? Put the turkeys in my room, Mom.”

“I’m not putting the turkeys in your room.”

“Put the turkeys in my room.”

“No.”

“Put them in my room, put them in my room, put them in my room—”

That night, as he stares into a turkey’s dark eyes, he knows he’s made a grave mistake. 

**THEY KNOW,** he texts Kiyoomi. **THEY KNOW WHAT I’VE DONE.**

 **??????** Kiyoomi texts back. Then he sends, **Whatever it is, send pictures.**

Atsumu decides to facetime him instead, swiping the call button before he can even begin to wonder if Kiyoomi’s okay with this. 

Kiyoomi’s face stares into the camera, his hair ruffled and sticking up everywhere. “Did you seriously just call me at three in the morning just because you’re scared of a fucking turkey?” 

One of the turkeys gobbles again and Atsumu shrieks into his phone. 

Kiyoomi glares at him. “I’m going to have you assassinated one of these days.” 

Atsumu laughs. 

“I mean it,” the prince responds. “Our assassins are trained well, you’ll never see it coming, it’ll look like some humiliating accident.”

“Erotic asphyxiation?” 

Kiyoomi makes a face at him. “Toilet heart attack.” 

Atsumu wrinkles his nose. “Yikes.” 

“You’ve been warned.” 

“I thought you’d kill me in a more personal way, you know, silk pillow over the face, hands around my neck, slow and sensual.” 

Kiyoomi chokes and coughs, and Atsumu laughs at his reaction. He loves getting a rise out of the other man, watching his carefully polished exterior crack and crumble. 

He’s not doing it with any malicious intent anymore, though. He does it because the real Kiyoomi is an interesting person, someone who fascinates him and wants to know more of him than just what he sees in press releases. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “These fucking turkeys are going to-” 

There’s a rustle from Kiyoomi’s side of the call and he hears him start crooning, saying “Here kitty, kitty” to what he guesses is his cat. He didn’t even know that Kiyoomi had a cat. 

“Haru says hello.” He pans the camera over to show a small black cat with dark eyes that are eerily similar to Kiyoomi’s. 

“Aw,” Atsumu says, and coos at the cat through the screen. 

They talk for a while, mostly Atsumu watching Kiyoomi play with his cat on his side of the call, until Atsumu can’t help it and lets out a massive yawn. 

“Go to sleep,” says Kiyoomi. 

Atsumu bites down a smile that feels bigger than the sentence has truly earned. “You go to sleep.”

“I will,” Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu thinks he hears the weird smile returned in Kiyoomi’s voice, and honestly, this whole night is really, really weird, “as soon as you get off the phone, won’t I?”

“Okay,” Atsumu says.

“Okay,” Kiyoomi agrees.

“Okay,” Atsumu says again. He’s suddenly very aware they’ve never spoken on the phone before, and so he’s never had to figure out how to hang up the phone with Kiyoomi before. He’s at a loss. But he’s still smiling. 

“Okay,” Kiyoomi repeats. “So. Good night.”

“Cool,” Atsumu says lamely. “Good night.”

He hangs up the phone, staring at it like it might explain the electric feeling in the air, the warmth in his chest, and the way Kiyoomi is still on his mind. 

He’s never felt like this before, and he should probably tell Osamu about this, or ask Kiyoomi if he feels the same, but instead he falls asleep and vows to think about it in the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things happen over the holidays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry updates have been slow, school and depression are really getting to me, i hope u enjoy this long(ish) chapter :P

He can’t take this anymore. It’s Christmas, and he can’t even catch a break. 

Atsumu storms out of the dining room and down the hall until he reaches his room, closing the door with a little more force than necessary. 

Dinner was going smoothly, until his mother just _had_ to bring up his relationship with Kiyoomi. Osamu had started teasing him, saying they were so close, they might as well be fucking. 

Atsumu’s face had gone red at the comment, and he’d just stammered and stammered until everyone started laughing at him. 

Him and Kiyoomi weren’t like that, hell, he wasn’t even gay. There was that one time when he hooked up with Gin, one of the guys on his high school volleyball team, but they were just helping each other out, it didn’t mean anything. 

But there was something in the way he felt when Kiyoomi smiled, something he shoved deep, deep down, that he couldn't let himself feel. 

He’s the son of the president of the United States, he can’t be queer, it would cause a scandal, and with his mother’s reelection campaign coming up, that’s the last thing they need. 

Fuck, he needs to talk to someone. His hand twitches for his phone; he thinks in two modes, alone or with company. But Hinata’s celebrating with his family and he hasn’t spoken to Gin, his high school best friend and occasional hookup in the years he’s moved to DC. 

Which leaves…

“Which deity did I upset to have brought this upon myself again?” says Kiyoomi, voice low and sleepy. He can hear Christmas carols playing faintly in the background. 

“Hey, uh, I know it’s late and it’s Christmas, and oh shit you’re probably busy with like, family shit. Wow, this is why I don’t have friends, I am an _asshole-_ ” 

“Fucking hell, Miya,” Kiyoomi interrupts. “It’s fine, it’s two in the morning here, and everyone’s gone to bed. Well, except for Naomi. Say hi, Naomi.” 

“Hi Atsumu,” says a clear, bright, giggly voice through the phone. 

He can’t help but grin, Naomi’s happiness infecting him all the way from London. 

“So what’s happening, then?” Kiyoomi asks. 

Shit. 

He can’t tell Kiyoomi he’s having a gay crisis because his brother made a joke about them fucking, why did he even decide to call Kiyoomi in the first place?

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, we can just talk.” 

He lets out a breath he didn’t know that he was holding. “Yeah, that would be great.” 

Kiyoomi starts the conversation by telling him what he was like in high school, and soon Atsumu joins in with his own stories. 

He doesn’t realize that they’ve been talking for almost an hour when there’s a soft triple knock on the door, one he recognizes at Osamu’s. 

“Shit, I’ve gotta go,” he says. 

“Miya-” 

“Seriously, um. Thanks. For everything. Merry Christmas, Omi.” 

He hangs up and tosses his phone aside just as Osamu opens the door, wearing an oversized hoodie and his hair damp from the shower. 

“You okay?” his brother asks.

He nods. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to lose it like that. I’ve just been, kind of off lately” 

Osamu nods back. “You know, ‘Tsumu, it’s okay if you and Kiyoomi are a thing, and even if you’re not, it’s okay if you want to be. We love you, you know? And both me and Hinata like guys so of course we’re okay with it.” 

Atsumu’s eyes soften. “Thanks.” 

“Anyways, what did Hinata say when you told him?” 

“Huh?”

“On the phone?” he says. “I know he’s the only one you talk to about all this shit.” 

“Oh,” Atsumu says. He feels heat rise to his face, curse his stupid complexion that obviously shows his blush. “Uh, this is going to sound really weird, but I talked to Kiyoomi.” 

Osamu’s eyebrows shoot up, and Atsumu scans the room for cover. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can disappear into thin air. 

“Really,” says his brother, disbelief in his voice. 

“Listen I know, but we’re weirdly similar, like we have the same strange emotional baggage that comes from being the son of a political figure, and I felt like he would get it.” 

“Oh my god, ‘Tsumu,” he says, lunging at him to pull him into a hug. “You made a friend!” 

“I have friends! Get off of me, ya scrub!” 

“I’m finally free of you,” Osamu says, ruffling Atsumu’s hair as he does. “I’m so happy.” 

“I’m gonna murder you, _stop it ‘Samu,_ ” he says, rolling out of his clutches. “He's not my friend. He’s someone I like to antagonize all the time, and one time I talked to him about something real.” 

“That’s a friend, ‘Tsumu.” 

Atsumu’s mouth opens and starts several sentences before he just points at the door. “Get out,” he says lightheartedly. 

“Nope,” says Osamu. “Tell me all about your new royal bestie. Who would’ve guessed it?” he says, peering over the edge of the bed to where he’s laying on the floor. “Oh my God, this is like all those romantic comedies where the girl hires a male escort to pretend to be her wedding date and then falls in love with him for real.”

“That is _not at all_ what this is like.”

* * *

The White House staff has barely finished putting away the Christmas tree when it starts. 

There’s the playlist to finalize, the dance floor to set up, and the menu to finalize. 

It’s once again time for the White House Trio’s legendary balls out new year’s eve party. 

Technically, the title is the Young America New Year’s Eve Gala, or as at least one late-night host calls it, the Millennial Correspondents’ Dinner. Every year, Atsumu, Osamu, and Hinata, and by extension, Suna and Kageyama, fill up the East Room on the first floor with about two hundred of their friends, vague celebrity acquaintances, former hookups, potential political connections, and otherwise notable twenty-somethings. The party is, officially, a fund-raiser, and it generates so much money for charity and so much good PR for the First Family that even his mom approves of it.

“Uh,” Atsumu starts, holding a handful of confetti samples, trying to decide whether all metallic or red and gold. “Who the fuck put Kiyoomi on the list?” 

Hinata says through a mouthful of cake, “It wasn’t me.” 

He turns to face his brother and glares at him. 

“Look, you should’ve invited him yourself, you fucker. You have friends other than me and Sho now, remember?” 

“I have friends who aren’t you guys,” Atsumu says.

“Who, ‘Tsumu, literally who?”

“People!” he says defensively. “People from class. And Gin.” 

“Please. We all know you haven’t talked to Gin in a year. You need friends. And I know you like Kiyoomi.” 

“Shut up,” says Atsumu. 

Hinata studies them both with warm brown eyes. 

“Fine, he can come. But if he doesn’t know anybody else, I’m not babysitting him all night.”

“I gave him a plus one,” Osamu says. 

“Who’s he bringing?” Atsumu asks reflexively. It’s not like he’s jealous, not at all, he’s just curious. 

“Komori Motoya, his cousin,” he says back. Osamu’s giving him a weird look, one he can’t place. 

So, Kiyoomi is coming, he guesses, and his guess is confirmed by a quick look at Komori’s instagram. Kiyoomi is smiling for the camera, feet resting up on the windowsill. He actually looks well rested for once, and Atsumu can’t help but smile at him. 

He texts Kiyoomi. 

**ATTN: will be wearing a burgundy velvet suit tonight. please do not attempt to steal my shine. you will fail and i will be embarrassed for you.**

Kiyoomi texts back seconds later. 

**Wouldn’t dream of it.**

From then everything turns into a montage, he feels like he’s just going through the motions, as people arrive in waves, first the first timers, then the people who aren’t new at all to this type of scene. 

He’s just beginning to wonder where Kiyoomi is when Osamu shouts, “Incoming!” 

His gaze is met with the sight of Kiyoomi in a plain navy blue suit, but paired with a gold tie in a skinny cut. It’s the first time he’s seen him in person since London, and even though there were the hundreds of text messages and calls between then, it kind of feels like he’s meeting a new person. 

It’s a weird cognitive dissonance, Kiyoomi present and Kiyoomi past. That must be why something feels so restless and hot somewhere beneath his sternum. That and the whiskey

“Nice tie,” he says, as soon as Kiyoomi is close enough to hear him over the roar of the crowd.

“Thought I might be escorted off the premises for anything less exciting,” he says, and his voice is somehow different than Atsumu remembers. Like the very expensive velvet that makes up his suit, something moneyed and lush and fluid all at once.

“Well come on, Omi I’m already two drinks in, you’ve gotta catch up to me,” he says, escorting him through the crowd. More than one conversation stops as they pass, he wonders what they must look like to everyone else, the first son and the prince. 

That’s what people see, but they don’t know about being shoved into a hospital storage closet, of late night calls, of the great turkey calamity.. Only Atsumu and Kiyoomi do. 

He gets them a round of drinks, and he’s surprised how good it feels to have Kiyoomi’s presence there with him. 

There’s dancing, and mingling, and a speech from Osamu about the charity the earnings from the night are going to. Osamu finds them at some point, and steals Kiyoomi away and takes him to the bar. He watches from afar, wondering what they could be talking about that has Osamu laughing his ass off so hard that he almost falls off of the stool he’s sitting on, until he gets caught up in the crowd and can’t see them anymore. 

After a while, the band breaks and a DJ takes over with a mix of early 2000s hip-hop, all the greatest hits that came out when Atsumu was a kid and were always played at dances when he was in his teens. That’s when Kiyoomi finds him again, pushing through the crowd to get to him. 

“You don’t dance?” he asks, staring at Kiyoomi, who’s just standing there. He thinks it’s endearing, and _wow_ Atsumu is drunk. 

“I do,” Kiyoomi says. “But the royal mandated ballroom dancing classes don’t really teach you this kind of dancing.” 

“Come on,” Atsumu says, moving closer to him. “It’s in the hips, just loosen up.” He reaches down and puts both of his hands on Kiyoomi’s hips and Kiyoomi does the exact opposite of loosen up. 

Atsumu pouts his lips and shakes his ass, moving in time to the music. Despite himself, Kiyoomi smiles and starts to move to the beat, and bops his head, causing Atsumu to full on grin at him. 

“I thought you weren’t going to babysit him all night,” Osamu stage-whispers in his ear as he twirls by.

He rolls his eyes at him. 

From there, it’s a series of crowd-pleasers until midnight, the lights and music blasting at full capacity. Confetti, somehow blasting into the air. Did they arrange for confetti cannons? More drinks--Kiyoomi starts drinking directly from a bottle of Moët Chandon. 

They all huddle up at 11:59 for the countdown, eyes blurry and arms around one another. Hinata screams “three, two, one” right in his ear and slings his arm around his neck as he yells his approval and kisses him sloppily, laughing through it.

They do this every year, both of them high on excitement and drunk enough to make everyone jealous. Tobio doesn’t mind that Atsumu kisses his boyfriend, in fact, he thinks that everyone else's reaction is hilarious. 

Hinata’s mouth is warm and horrifying, and he tastes like champagne, and he bits his lip and ruffles Atsumu’s hair for good measure. 

When he opens his eyes, Kiyoomi is staring at him, expression unreadable. 

Atsumu loses track of things after that, because he’s very, very drunk and the music is very, very loud and there are very, very many hands on him, carrying him through the tangle of dancing bodies and passing him more drinks.

It’s loud and messy and wonderful. Atsumu has always loved these parties, the sparkling joy of it all, the way champagne bubbles on his tongue and confetti sticks to his shoes. It’s a reminder that even though he stresses and stews in private rooms, there will always be a sea of people he can disappear into, that the world can be warm and welcoming and fill up the walls of this big old house he lives in with something bright and infectiously alive. 

But somewhere underneath it all, he can’t help but realize Kiyoomi’s not there anymore. 

He checks the bathrooms, the buffet, the quiet corners of the ballroom, but he’s nowhere. Worried isn’t exactly the right word for what he is right now, it’s more something along the lines of curious or bothered. He keeps looking, until he trips over his own feet by one of the big windows in the hallway. He’s pulling himself up when he glances outside, down into the garden.

There, under a tree in the snow, exhaling little puffs of steam, is a tall, lean, broad-shouldered figure that can only be Kiyoomi. 

He walks up to him. 

“What are you doing?” he asks. 

‘Looking for Orion.” 

Atsumu huffs a laugh, looking up to the sky. Nothing but fat winter clouds. “You must be really bored with the commoners to come out here and stare at the clouds.”

“Not bored,” he mumbles. “What are _you_ doing out here? Doesn’t America’s golden boy have a crowd to woo?” 

Atsumu laughs again. “Says prince fucking charming.” 

His knuckle brushes against the back of Kiyoomi’s hand, that’s how close together they are. Neither one of them pulls away. 

“You can’t ever leave well enough alone, can you?” He leans his head back. It thumps gently against the trunk of the tree. “Sometimes it gets a bit … much.”

Atsumu shifts, almost involuntarily, leaning against the tree too. Their shoulders are pressed together. 

A muscle in Kiyoomi's chiseled jawline moves into something that’s almost a grin. 

“D’you ever wonder,” he says slowly, “what it’s like to be some anonymous person out in the world?”

“Not really, “Atsumu responds honestly. He’s happy where he is, with Hinata and Osamu, happy with this life that’s led him to meet Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi shakes his head ruefully. “I’d be a musician, like a professional violinist.” 

Atsumu thinks he might already know that about Kiyoomi, it’s somewhere in the vibe he gives off. “Can’t you do that?”

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “It’s not really seen as a worthwhile pursuit for a man in line for the throne, usually people in the family go into the military anyways.”

He bites his lip, waits a beat and then keeps speaking. “I’d date more, probably, as well.”

Atsumu can’t help but laugh. “As if you have a hard time getting a date as the fucking prince of England.” 

He meets Atsumu’s eyes. “You’d be surprised.” 

“How? You’re not exactly lacking for options.”

Kiyoomi sighs. “The options I want, aren’t really options right now,” he says. 

Atsumu blinks at him. “What?” 

Kiyoomi takes a sharp breath in, but keeps going. “I’m saying, there are people who interest me, but it’s not wise for someone in my position to chase them.” 

Is he drunk? Atsumu can’t understand what he’s trying to say for the life of him. 

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Atsumu says.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“You really don’t?”

“I really, really don’t, Omi.” 

Kiyoomi’s entire face scrunches up cutely in frustration, his eyes looking up to the sky like he’s searching for some secret answer. “Fucking hell, you really are a dumbass,” he says, and grabs Atsumu’s face in both hands and kisses him. 

Atsumu freezes, registering the press of Kiyoomi’s lips against his, and the cuffs of his suit grazing his jaw. The world turns to TV static, and his brain slows down, adding up the equation of a teenage grudge, a crash into a wedding cake, calls at two in the morning, and surprisingly, he doesn’t really mind the result. 

He leans into the kiss and is rewarded with a swipe of Kiyoomi’s tongue against his. It’s nothing like the kiss he had with Hinata earlier, nothing like he’s ever felt before. 

One of Kiyoomi’s hands pushes into his hair and grabs it at the roots at the back of his head, and he hears himself make a sound that breaks the breathless silence, and suddenly, Kiyoomi’s breaking away, mumbling an apology, and walking away from him in double time. 

“Oh,” Atsumu says, touching a hand to his lips. Then: “Shit.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading, plz leave kudos/comments


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> atsumu starts to figure things out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was updated super fast since I have a long weekend, next update should be next week!

So the thing about the kiss is, Atsumu can't stop thinking about it. 

He’s tried, tried drowning it in alcohol, but not even getting totally wasted, or the massive hangover he has the next morning can scrub the encounter from his brain. Kiyoomi and Komori were long gone by the time he’d made it back inside. 

He tries listening in on his mother’s meetings, cooking with Osamu, playing volleyball with some of the bodyguards; not even making out with Hinata in front of the paparazzi is enough to take the kiss off of his mind. 

He starts his last semester, goes to class, sits with the social secretary to plan his graduation dinner, buries himself in highlighted annotations and supplemental readings.

But underneath it all, there’s the prince of England kissing him under the moonlight on new year’s eve, back pressed up against a tree, and his insides feel like they’re being turned inside out and he wants to throw himself down the front stairs of the White House. 

He hasn’t told anyone, not even Osamu or Hinata. He has no idea what he’d tell them if he did. Is he even allowed to tell anyone, since he signed that NDA back then? Was this why he had to sign it? Has Kiyoomi had feelings for him all along? Then why was he such an asshole to him all of those years ago? 

Kiyoomi still won’t answer any of his texts or calls. 

“Okay, that’s it,” Osamu says one late afternoon, stomping into his room. “I don’t know what the hell happened to you, but I’ve been trying to write this essay for the past hour and I can’t focus for shit with you pacing back and forth on the other side of the wall. Get up, we’re going for a run.” He shoves a baseball cap onto Atsumu’s head, and drags him out the door.

Bokuto goes with them to the national mall, and Osamu yells at Atsumu to keep up. Years of volleyball have left him with amazing stamina, but he can’t get his mind of that fucking kiss and it makes him run absentmindedly. 

He thinks, as he runs and runs and runs, the stupidest thing of all is that he’s straight.

Like, he’s pretty sure he’s straight.

He can point out moments all through his life when he could think, “Oh this means I can’t possibly be gay,” like the time he’d kissed a girl for the first time. He wasn’t thinking about a guy at the time, just about how soft her lips felt against his and the way her hands fisted in his hair. 

Or the time when Osamu came out as gay and he thought to himself that he could never imagine doing something like that. 

Or his senior year, when he got drunk and made out with Gin on his bed for almost two hours and didn’t have a sexuality crisis over it. Because if he were into guys, it would have felt scary to be with one, but it wasn’t. That was just how horny teenage best friends were sometimes, like when they would get off at the same time in Gin’s bedroom. 

He glances over at Osamu. Can his brother hear what he’s thinking? He always seems to know things. He doubles his pace, if only to get his knowing smirk out of his peripheral vision. 

On their fifth lap he thinks about how hormonal he was as a teenager, and remembers thinking about girls in the shower, but he also remembers fantasizing about a guy’s strong hands on him, about broad shoulders and hard cut jawlines. He remembers pulling his eyes off a teammate in the locker room a couple times, but that was, like, an objective thing. How was he supposed to know back then if he wanted to look like other guys, or if he _wanted_ other guys? Or if his horny teenage urges actually even meant anything?

He’s the son of Democrats, it’s something he’s always been around, hell, his two best friends are both queer. So he always assumed if he was like them he would just _know,_ like how he knows he learns best when he reads things. He thought he knew himself well enough that there weren’t any questions left. 

They’re rounding the corner for their eighth lap now, and he’s starting to see some flaws in his logic. Straight people, he thinks, probably don’t spend this much time convincing themselves they’re straight.

They all have their roles, Osamu the solid kind one, Hinata the sunshine, and him, the golden boy the heartthrob. It’s easier for them to be queer, to be in relationships, they’re not at the front of everything like he is. He’s the guy who moves through life effortlessly, who makes everyone laugh. Highest approval ratings of the entire First Family. The whole point of him is that his appeal is as universal as possible, to make them seem more familiar, to act like he knows everyone.

Being … whatever he’s starting to suspect he might be, is definitely not universally appealing to voters. He has a hard enough time being Japanese. 

He wants his mom’s reelection campaign to go well, the last thing he wants is to cause a scandal by coming out. 

But he thinks of Kiyoomi, of their kiss in the garden and _oh._

When he gets back to the White House, he lists off things in his head. He’s attracted to Kiyoomi. He wants to kiss Kiyoomi again. He has maybe wanted to kiss Kiyoomi for a while, as in, probably the whole time he’s known him.

He makes another list in his head. Gin. Kiyoomi. Aran. Bokuto and his broad shoulders. 

Sidling up to his desk, he pulls out the binder his mother gave him: DEMOGRAPHIC ENGAGEMENT: WHO THEY ARE AND HOW TO REACH THEM. He drags his finger down to the LGBTQ+ tab and turns to the page he’s looking for, titled with mother’s typical flair: THE B ISN’T SILENT: A CRASH COURSE ON BISEXUAL AMERICANS.

* * *

Hinata would be the obvious choice for help, if not for the fact that he’s drowning in finals. When he gets into the zone, it’s like talking to a whirlwind. 

But he’s his best friend-- and he knows he’s bisexual too, he never really dated before Tobio, but he knows he’s liked both girls and guys. 

So he makes his way into Hinata’s room, stepping over clothes where they’ve been strewn on the floor and computer cables. 

“You didn’t bring me food? God I’m gonna have to marry Tobio instead,” he jokes when he sees him. 

That could be his opening into this conversation. _Hey, you know how you’re dating Toboi? Well, like, what if I dated a guy?_ Not that he wants to date Kiyoomi. At all. Ever. Just because he wants to kiss him doesn’t mean that he _likes_ him. But just, like, hypothetically.

“You know how we kiss sometimes, like platonically?” 

Hinata laughs. “Yeah,” he says. 

“Well, uh, I think I’m bisexual.” 

Hinata tackles him into a hug. “I’m so proud of you. And I think I knew before you did.” 

“Yeah. So, uh. Something happened. You know how you invited Kiyoomi to new year’s?” 

He nods at Atsumu, arms still wrapped around him. Atsumu pulls him up so he’s sitting in his lap and starts carding his hands through his orange hair. 

“Well so, he kind of kissed me.” 

Hinata grins up at him. “Nice.” 

Atsumu stares at him. “You’re not surprised?” 

He laughs. “Well, he’s gay as a rainbow and you’re hot so no, not really.” 

Atsumu’s mouth falls open. “Wait, what? How do you know he’s gay, did he tell you or something? Is that what you were talking about on new years?” 

“No, I just… you know.” He waves a hand around in the air. “Some things you just know.” 

“I … what?”

“Dude. Have you met him? Isn’t he supposed to be your best friend or whatever? Well, best friend besides me. He’s gay. Like, Fire-Island-on-the-Fourth-of-July gay. Did you really not know?”

“No?” 

“I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

“Me too! How can he—how can he spring a kiss on me without even telling me he’s gay first?”

“I mean, like,” he attempts, “is it possible he assumed you knew?”

“But he goes on dates with girls all the time.”

“Yeah, because princes aren’t allowed to be gay,” he says, like it’s stupidly obvious. “How was the kiss? Did you like it?” 

There’s a pause. 

“What do you think it would mean if I did?” 

“I mean,” says Hinata, “You’ve liked him for ages, right? “ 

Atsumu chokes on the breath he’s inhaling. _“What?”_

Hinata turns to face him and stares straight into his eyes. “I mean you’ve been like obsessed with him for years and since the royal wedding, you’ve gotten his phone number and used it not to set up any appearances but instead to long-distance flirt with him all day every day. You’re constantly making faces at your phone, and if somebody asks you who you’re texting, you act like you got caught watching porn. You know his sleep schedule, he knows your sleep schedule, and you’re in a noticeably worse mood if you go a day without talking to him. Hell, you spent most of new year’s talking to him instead of finding people to hook up with like you usually do. So what do you think that means?” 

Hinata’s staring at him with wide brown eyes like the answer should be obvious. 

Atsumu stares. “I mean, I don’t know? That’s why I’m asking you.” 

Hinata frowns at him. 

“No okay look,” Atsumu starts. “It looks like it adds up to me having a huge crush on him but up until a few months ago we were enemies, and then we were friends and then he kissed me so really I have no idea what we are."

“Okay,” says Hinata, looking thoughtful. “So what are you going to do about it?” 

“I have no idea,” says Atsumu. “He won’t answer my texts or my calls, he’s just completely ghosting me, so I guess he regrets it and he only did it because he was fucking wasted.” 

Atsumu wants to tear his hair out. 

“‘Tsumu,” Hinata says from where he’s half laying on him. “He likes you, and he’s probably freaking out. You’re gonna have to decide how you feel about him and do something about it. He’s not in a position to do anything else.”

Atsumu has no idea what to say about any of it so he just hugs Hinata again and presses a kiss to his forehead affectionately. 

* * *

Atsumu throws his bag onto the floor aggressively. 

“Well good afternoon to you sunshine,” says Osamu’s voice. He’s perched on Atsumu’s bed, reading a magazine. “You look like shit,” he says. 

“Thanks, asshole.” 

Osamu throws a magazine at him and he barely manages to catch it. It’s a new issue of _People._

“You’re on page fifteen, and your prince charming is on page thirty one,” says his brother. 

He flips Osamu off and settles in on the bed next to him. 

Page fifteen is a picture of him the press team took two weeks ago, a nice, neat little package on him helping the Smithsonian with an exhibit about his mom’s historic presidential campaign. He’s explaining the story behind a MIYA FOR CONGRESS ’04 yard sign, and there’s a brief write-up alongside it about how dedicated he is to the family legacy, blah blah blah.

He turns to page thirty-one and almost swears out loud.

The headline: WHO IS PRINCE KIYOOMI’S MYSTERY BLONDE?

Osamu laughs at him. 

He’s angry for a second, but then he remembers what Hinata said to him earlier. “Why do you think they’re always photographed?” 

And he thinks about Kiyoomi’s guardedness, the way he carries himself with a careful separation from the world around him, the tension at the corner of his mouth, the way his walls are higher than the ones of Buckingham Palace. 

Faintly, under it all, it occurs to him: This is all a very not-straight way to react to seeing your male frenemy kissing someone else in a magazine.

He considers telling Osamu, or even Kita, or Bokuto. But in the moment, it feels right to go back to the source, to ask someone who’s seen whatever is in his eyes when a boy touches him.

He kicks his brother out of the room and calls Gin. 

“Hello?” says his voice over the phone. 

He clears his throat. Fuck, this is going to be harder than he thought. “Uh, hey Gin, it’s Atsumu.” 

“I know,” Gin says, voice dry. 

“How, um, how have you been?”

A pause. The sound of quiet talking in the background, dishes. “You wanna tell me why you’re really calling, Atsumu?

“Oh,” he starts and stops, tries again. “This might sound weird. But, um. Back in high school, did we have, like, a thing? Did I miss that?”

There’s a clattering sound, like a fork being dropped. “Are you serious? I’m at lunch with my boyfriend right now.” 

Shit. He didn’t even know Gin had a boyfriend. “Oh, sorry,” he says. 

“What exactly are you asking me?"

“I mean, like, we messed around, but did it, like, mean something?”

Gin sighs. “I don’t think I can answer that question for you. Look man, I don’t know what kind of identity crisis you’re having right now, and I’m not saying what we did in high school makes you gay or bi or whatever, but I can tell you _I’m_ gay, and that even though I acted like what we were doing wasn’t gay back then, it super was. Is that helpful?” 

“Um, yeah,” Atsumu says. “I think so. Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.”

“And um, I’m sorry?” he adds. 

“Fucking _hell,_ ” Gin says and hangs up the phone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed!


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a confrontation

Kiyoomi can’t avoid him forever. 

There’s one last part of the post wedding cake fiasco deal to fulfill: Kiyoomi’s presence at a state dinner at the end of February. England has a new prime minister, and his mother wants to meet him; Kiyoomi is coming along as a courtesy or something.

Atsumu smooths down the lapels of his tux again, it’s a habit he’s developed after years of formal functions, and hangs close to Hinata and Osamu. He’s bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet and he knows it, but he can’t seem to stop. 

Hinata shoots him a knowing smile and a reassuring look, but doesn’t say anything. He’s keeping it quiet. He’s still not ready to tell his brother, telling him is irreversible, something he can never undo and he’s not going to do it until he knows whatever this thing with Kiyoomi is. 

Kiyoomi enters stage right, looking like he’s straight off of a runway. 

His suit is black, smooth, elegant. Perfect. Atsumu wants to rip it off, wants to press their bodies together and lean up to kiss him.

Kiyoomi’s face is composed, but turns downright ashen as soon as he sees Atsumu. His footsteps speed up, like he’s thinking of making a run for it. Atsumu is not above tackling him to the ground to keep him from leaving. 

Instead, he keeps walking up the steps, and—

“Alright, photos--” says Kita from over his shoulder. 

“Oh,” says Kiyoomi, like someone who’s just had a concussion. 

“Hey,” says Atsumu through his fake smile as they shake hands. The cameras flash. “Cool to see you’re not dead or anything, you know, because you haven’t texted me in _weeks._ ” 

Kiyoomi winces. “Uh-” 

“We need to talk,” Atsumu starts but then Kita’s shoving them into the dining hall and they’re separated by the crowd. 

Every so often, Kiyoomi will look up, meet Atsumu’s eyes, blush furiously, and return to his food like it’s the most interesting thing that he’s ever seen. 

How _dare_ Kiyoomi come here and drink wine with his family and act all casual like they didn’t make out under the moonlight. 

“Hinata,” he whispers to his best friend as soon as Osamu is distracted. “Can you get Kiyoomi away from his table?” 

He stares at him, something unreadable in his eyes. “Are you going to seduce him or something?” 

“Sure, yeah that’s it,” Atsumu replies, because he has honestly no idea what he’s going to do, and heads for the back of the room where the secret service agents are stationed. 

“Bokuto,” he hisses, grabbing him by the wrist. “I need your help.” 

“Where’s the threat?” he asks seriously. 

“No, no, Jesus.” Atsumu swallows. “Not like that, I need to get prince Kiyoomi alone.” 

He blinks. “I don’t follow.”

“I need to talk to him in private.”

“I can accompany you outside if you need to speak with him, but I’ll have to get it approved with his security first.”

“No,” he says, scrubbing a hand across his face and glancing back to confirm that Hinata is talking to Kiyoomi. “I need him _alone._ ” 

Bokuto makes an ‘aha’ face, and says, “The best I can do is the Red Room. You take him any farther and it’s a no-go.”

He looks over his shoulder again at the tall doors across the State Dining Room. The Red Room is empty on the other side, awaiting the after-dinner cocktails.

“How long can I have?” he says.

“Five min—”

“I can make that work, thanks bro.”

He turns on his heel and heads to where Hinata has Kiyoomi cornered at the snack table, planting himself between them. “Hi,” he says, and Hinata grins. “Sorry to interrupt, important foreign relations stuff.” And then he grabs Kiyoomi by the wrist and yanks him away. 

“Do you mind?” he has the nerve to say to Atsumu, as if he didn’t ghost him for almost a month.

“Shut the hell up,” he replies, dropping his hand and walking behind him to force him to keep walking out of the room. He remembers that Kiyoomi doesn’t like to be touched and even though he’s frustrated with the prince, he doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable. 

They reach the doors and Bokuto is there, hand on the doorknob. He hesitates. “You’re not going to kill him, are you?” 

“Probably not,” Atsumu says. That’s good enough for Bokuto and he opens the door just enough to let him through, Atsumu shoving Kiyoomi into the room. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Kiyoomi demands.

“Shut _up,_ shut all the way up, oh my God,” hisses Atsumu. He’s focused on the burst of adrenaline carrying his feet across the antique carpet and Kiyoomi’s tie wrapped around his fist. He reaches the nearest wall, presses Kiyoomi against it, and crashes their lips together. 

Kiyoomi’s mouth falls open, more in shock than in invitation, but then he’s kissing him back and it’s everything and even better than Atsumu remembered, and he can’t recall why they haven’t been doing this the whole time, why they’ve been running belligerent circles around each other for so long without doing anything about it.

“Wait,” says Kiyoomi, breaking the kiss. He pulls back, face red and flushed and lips kiss-swollen. “Don’t you think we should slow down, and like, go on a date first?” 

Atsumu is actually going to kill him. 

“You want to kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid,” he says instead, a smirk on his face. 

Kiyoomi sighs. “You’re right, I do,” he says, and then brings their lips together again. 

They’re going at it hard, Kiyoomi’s bottom lip caught in between his teeth, and he’s somewhere between angry and giddy, caught up in the space between years of sworn hate and something else he’s begun to suspect has always been there. It’s white-hot, and he feels crazy with it, lit up from the inside.

He’s just starting to snake a hand up Kiyoomi’s thigh when there’s a knock from the door and Bokuto’s voice comes floating through the door. “Time’s up,” he says. 

They freeze, Atsumu falling back onto his heels. They can hear it now, the sound of bodies too close to the door for comfort, wrapping up into the late night. 

Atsumu takes an unsteady step backward, taking in Kiyoomi’s rumpled suit and dishevelled hair, his flushed face. Kiyoomi realizes what he’s staring at and tries his best to fix everything into place. “Fuck, you look-- _fuck._ ” 

“Okay, so,” Atsumu says. “Yeah. So here’s what we’re gonna do. You are gonna go be, like, five hundred feet away from me for the rest of the night, or else I am going to do something that I will deeply regret in front of a lot of very important people.”

Kiyoomi nods. 

“And then,” he starts, moving closer to him. “You’re going to come to my room just before midnight and then I’m going to do _things_ to you and if you fucking ghost me again, I’m going to get you put on a fucking no-fly list. Got it?”

Kiyoomi bites down on a strangled noise that tries to escape his throat and nods. 

* * *

When he finishes, he presses a sticky kiss to Kiyoomi’s forehead. The mattress shifts, and Kiyoomi moves up to the pillows, nuzzling his face into the hollow of Atsumu’s throat. He makes a vague noise of contentment and wraps his arms around Kiyoomi’s waist, too tired to do anything else. 

He’s sure he used to know quite a lot of words, in more than one language, in fact, but he can’t seem to recall any of them.

Kiyoomi makes a humming noise. “If I had known this was all it would take to shut you up, I would've done it ages ago,” he says. 

With a feat of Herculean strength, he summons up two whole words: “Fuck you.”

Kiyoomi rolls over onto his back. Atssumu’s body wants to follow and tuck into his side, to close the distance between them until the lines that divide them begin to blur, but he stays where he is, watching from a few safe inches away. He can see a muscle in Kiyoomi’s stupidly chiseled jawline flexing.

“Hey,” he says, placing a hand on Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Don’t freak out. It’s okay.” 

“I’m not _freaking out,_ ” he says, enunciating the words.

Atsumu scoots closer to him. “We’re still whatever we were before, whatever label makes you feel comfortable, except now we kiss.” 

Kiyoomi nods, curling into Atsumu’s side. He’s like a cat, thinks Atsumu. 

“So,” Atsumu says, changing tracks by stretching languidly, “I guess I should tell you, I’m bisexual.”

“Good to know,” Kiyoomi says. “And I guess you should know I am very, very, gay.” 

Atsumu watches his small smile, the way it wrinkles the corners of his eyes, and very deliberately does not kiss it.

They stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, until it’s five in the morning. 

“I should leave,” says Kiyoomi, and Atsumu nods, even though it hurts him to know that he has to leave, that they’re not going to wake up tangled in each other in the morning. 

He watches him get dressed again, telling himself it’s for the best. Even if he did want that, there a million reasons why this will never ever be possible. 

He kisses Kiyoomi goodnight at the door, and then he’s smiling at him, and then Kiyoomi’s gone. 

* * *

_Email Contents, 3/3/2020 7:32 pm_

_atsumumiya@whitehouse.com to princekiyoomi@kensington.com_

_Subject: Paris_

_His Royal Highness Prince Kiyoomi of whatever._

_Don’t make me learn your actual title._

_Are you going to be at the Paris fund-raiser for rainforest conservation this weekend?_

_\- Atsumu_

* * *

_Email Contents, 3/4/20 2:14 am_

_princekiyoomi@kensington.com to atsumumiya@whitehouse.com_

_RE: Paris_

_First, you should know how terribly inappropriate it is for you to intentionally botch my title. I could have you made into a royal settee cushion for that kind of lèse-majesté. Fortunately for you, I do not think you would complement my sitting room decor._

_Secondly, no, I will not be attending the Paris fund-raiser; I have a previous engagement. You shall have to find someone else to accost in a cloakroom._

_Regards,_

_\- Kiyoomi_

* * *

_Email Contents, 3/4/20 2:27 am_

_atsumumiya@whitehous.com to princekiyooomi@kensington.com_

_Huge Raging Headache Prince Kiyoomi of Who Cares,_

_It is amazing you can sit down to write emails with that gigantic royal stick up your ass. I seem to remember you really enjoying being “accosted.”_

_Everyone there is going to be boring anyway. What are you doing?_

_\- Atsumu_

* * *

_Email Contents, 3/4/20 2:34 am_

_princekiyoomi@kensington.com to atsumumiya@whitehouse.com_

_I hate you._

_I’ll try and get out of my fundraiser xoxo_

_\- Kiyoomi_


	7. seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an interlude of sorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i took so long to update and that this chapter is so short! there'll be more action next chapter.

Kiyoomi does manage to get out of his event, and he meets Atsumu in a plaza somewhere, wearing a navy blue blazer and a small smile that is the Kiyoomi equivalent of a full on grin. They stumble back to his hotel after two bottles of wine, and Atsumu doesn’t have the right words, in english or japanese, to describe the way that Kiyoomi’s dark as ink eyes look at him make him feel. 

He’s so drunk, and Kiyoomi’s lips are so soft against his, and it’s all so fucking perfect that he forgets to send Kiyoomi back to his own hotel room at the end of the night. He forgets that they don’t do mornings together, so they do, just this once. 

He discovers that Kiyoomi sleeps on his side, his spine poking out in little sharp points that are actually soft if you reach out and touch them, very carefully so as not to wake him because he’s actually sleeping for once. In the morning, room service brings up croissants and Kiyoomi reads to him out of the book that’s on the nightstand and he spends almost an hour basking in the oaky tones of Kiyoomi’s voice. 

He vaguely remembers telling himself they weren’t going to do things like this. It’s all a little hazy right now.

Later, after Kiyoomi leaves with a kiss goodbye, he gets a text from Kita that contains a screenshot of a  _ BuzzFeed  _ article about his “best friendship ever” with Kiyoomi, and it’s captioned with  **good work** . 

He guesses this is how they’re going to do this—the world is going to keep thinking they’re best friends, and they’re going to keep playing the part.

Atsumu knows he should pace himself, their relationship is only physical. But perfect stoic prince charming Kiyoomi laughs at Atsumu’s shitty jokes and texts him things like  **you’re a mad, spiteful, unmitigated demon, and I’m going to kiss you until you forget how to talk** in the odd hours of the morning. 

And Atsumu is kind of obsessed with it, it’s a high he’s always chasing. 

He decides not to think too hard. Normally they’d only cross paths a few times a year; it takes creative schedule wrangling and a little sweet-talking of their respective teams to see each other as often as their bodies demand. At least they’ve got a ruse of international public relations.

It turns out that their birthdays are less than three weeks apart, which means for most of March, Kiyoomi is twenty three and Atsumu is twenty one. (“I knew he was a fucking pisces” Osamu had said.) Atsumu happens to have a voter registration drive at NYU at the end of March, and when he texts Kiyoomi about it, he gets a brief response fifteen minutes later.  **Have rescheduled visit to New York for nonprofit business to this weekend, will be there for birthday sex.** Atsumu chokes on his food when he reads it. 

They’re more careful in the States, and they go up to the hotel room one at a time—Kiyoomi through the back flanked by two tall PPOs, and later, Atsumu with Bokuto, who grins and knows and says nothing except for, “Have fun.” 

There’s a lot of champagne, which reminds Atsumu of their first kiss on new year’s eve, and lots of kissing, and when they fall into bed together Atsumu thinks of just how lucky he is that they’re doing this. 

It’s the last time they see each other for weeks, and after a lot of teasing and maybe some begging, he convinces Kiyoomi to download Snapchat. Kiyoomi sends tame, mostly fully clothed pictures of himself, a mirror shot in the mornings, him on a sailboat, the sun bright against his pale shoulders. With the last one, his heart had gone so fucking weird and there was this feeling in his chest that made him scream into a pillow for a whole ninety seconds. 

(But, like. It’s fine. It’s not a whole thing.)

Between it all, they talk about Atsumu’s campaign job, and Kiyoomi’s nonprofit projects, both of their appearances, and how Komori and Osamu and Hinata are doing. 

There are a lot of days where Kiyoomi seems happy to see him and he’s quick to respond with his sharp, cutting sense of humor, but there are some days when he’s overcast, like the skies outside, and he’ll withdraw for hours or days, and Atsumu comes to understand this as times when Kiyoomi needs a break, little bouts of depression, or times of “too much.” Kiyoomi hates those days with everything he can but Atsumu really doesn’t mind them. 

He likes every part of Kiyoomi, his cloudy tempers, the way he comes back from them, and the millions of shades in between. 

He starts to learn and understand new things about himself too, like why he felt an ache in his chest when he first read about Stonewall and why he stressed so much about the SCOTUS decision to legalize gay marriage in 2015. He’d thought it was because his brother and best friend were both queer, but in reality he was just pushing down his own identity. 

Atsumu feels more like himself around Kiyoomi, when they fall into bed together after a gala in Berlin, he knows who he truly is, and he can truly be that person, not just the facade he is for publicity. 

* * *

They call each other more often, it’s not as good as being able to see each other in person, but he still gets to see Kiyoomi’s face and hear his voice, so it’s better than nothing. 

Atsumu decides to say something that’s been itching at him for a while. “You know, this whole arrangement we have … you can tell me stuff. I tell you stuff all the time. Politics stuff and school stuff and nutso family stuff. I know I’m, like, not the paragon of normal human communication, but. You know.”

There’s a pause. 

“I’m not … historically great at talking about things,” Kiyoomi says. 

Atsumu smiles at him. “We can always learn.” 

“I like learning things,” says Kiyoomi, and Atsumu’s smile widens. 

“See you just told me a thing. You can tell me other stuff.” 

They start talking, Kiyoomi about his sister and the rest of the royal family, the crushing disapproval, the whispers and the prospect of an arranged marriage. Atsumu starts talking too, about growing up, about the backlash on his mother’s first campaign run, about coming out to Hinata. 

It starts to grow dark outside, a dull and soggy evening around the Residence, and Atsumu makes his way into his bed. He hears about the string of guys from Kiyoomi’s university days, all of them enamored with the idea of sleeping with a prince, almost all of them immediately alienated by the paperwork and secrecy. 

“But of course, er,” Kiyoomi says, “nobody since … well, since you and I—”

“No,” Atsumu says, faster than he expects, “me neither. Nobody else.”

He hears words coming out of his mouth, ones he can’t believe he’s saying out loud. About Gin, about their nights together, about how he used to wish he could get high, but he couldn't risk it because of publicity. About Osamu, and the unspoken knowledge that he only lives in the white house to watch over him. About how much some of the lies people tell about his mother hurt, the fear she’ll lose. 

They talk for so long that Atsumu has to plug his phone in to keep it from dying. He rolls onto his side and listens, trails the back of his hand across the pillow next to him and imagines Kiyoomi lying opposite in his own bed, two parentheses enclosing 3,700 miles. 

Somehow, this is the same person who had Atsumu so convinced he didn’t care about anything, who still has the rest of the world convinced he’s a mild, unfettered Prince Charming. It’s taken months to get here: the full realization of just how wrong he was.

“I miss you,” Atsumu says before he can stop himself.

He instantly regrets it, but Kiyoomi says, “I miss you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment i love reading them !


	8. eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> osamu finds out and things progress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i took so long to update, my mental health tanked :/ i hope u like this chapter!

An incessant buzzing snaps him present, and he digs out his phone from the bottom of his bag.

“Where the hell are you?” Osamu’s voice demands over the line. 

Fuck. He checks the time. It's 9:44, and he was supposed to meet his brother for dinner over an hour ago. 

"Shit, 'Samu, I'm so sorry," he starts, jumping out of his desk chair and shoving his things into his bag. "I got caught up at work, I completely forgot." 

"I sent you like a million texts," his brother says. He sounds like he's in the middle of imagining him being stabbed to death with one of his favorite kitchen knives. 

“My phone was on silent,” he says helplessly, booking it for the elevator. “I’m seriously so sorry. I’m a complete jackass. I’m leaving now.”

"Don't worry about it," Osamu says. "I got mine to go. I'll see you at home." 

"'Samu-" 

"Don't call me that." 

"Osamu." 

The line drops. 

When he gets back to the residence, Osamu is laying on his bed, watching old episodes of Riverdale and eating pasta out of a plastic container. He pointedly ignores Atsumu when he comes to the doorway. 

He's reminded of when they were kids, both eight years old. He recalls standing next to his brother at the bathroom mirror, looking at the similarities between their faces: the same round tips of their noses, the same thick, unruly brows, the same square jaw inherited from their mother. He remembers watching Osamu’s expression, carefully guarded, but still disappointed because their parents had a meeting and couldn't take them to their first day of school.

“I’m sorry,” he tries again. “I honestly feel like complete and total shit. Please don’t be mad at me.”

Osamu keeps chewing, staring at the television and watching as Madelaine Petsch strolls down a high school hallway. 

“We can do lunch tomorrow,” Atsumu says desperately. “I’ll cook you something.” 

“I don’t give a fuck about the meal, ‘Tsumu.” 

“Then what do you want from me?”

Osamu sighs. “I want you to not be like Mom right now.” He closes his food container and hops off of the bed, starting to pace across the room. 

“Okay,” Atsumu says, raising up both hands defensively. “Is this what we’re going to do now?” 

“I--” he takes a deep breath. “No, I shouldn’t have said that.” 

“No, you obviously fucking meant it.” Atsumu drops his bag and walks into the room. “Just say whatever you actually mean, I don’t wanna spend hours going in circles with you.” 

He turns to face him, leaning against his dresser. “You really don’t see it? You never sleep, you’re always throwing yourself into something, you’re willing to let Mom use you for whatever she wants, the tabloids are always after you—”

“I’ve always been like this,” Atsumu interrupts “I’m gonna be a politician. You always knew that. I’m starting as soon as I graduate … which is in a month. This is how my life is gonna be, okay? I’m choosing it.”

“Well, maybe it’s the wrong choice,” Osamu says, biting his lip nervously.

He stares at him. “Where the fuck is this coming from?” 

“Come on, ‘Tsumu.” 

Atsumu doesn’t know what the hell his brother is trying to get at. “You’ve always backed me and my choices up until now. What’s going on?” 

Osamu glares at him. “Until now, you weren’t fucking the prince of England!” 

That makes Atsumu shut up. “Shoyo told you?” 

“What?” Osamu says. “No. But it really sucks that you told him and not me.” He folds his arms again. “I’m sorry, I was trying to wait for you to tell me yourself, but, Jesus, ‘Tsumu, how many times was I supposed to believe you were volunteering to take those international appearances we always found excuses to get out of? And, like, did you forget I’ve lived across the hall from you for almost my entire life?”

Atsumu looks down at the rug. “So this is about Omi?” 

Osamu makes a strangled noise, and when he looks back up, he’s digging through the top drawer of her dresser. “Oh my God, how are you so smart and so dumb at the same time?” He throws a magazine at him, and before he can protest and say that he’s not in the mood for tabloids, he sees what’s on the cover. It’s an old issue of _J14,_ open to a full page spread of prince Kiyoomi, age thirteen. 

He glances up. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew!” he says, flopping dramatically into the chair opposite him. “You were always leaving your greasy little fingerprints all over it! Why do you always assume you can get away with things?” He releases a long-suffering sigh. “I never really … got what he was to you, until I _got_ it. I thought you had a crush or something, or that I could help you make a friend, but, Atsumu. We meet so many people. I mean, thousands and thousands of people, and a lot of them are morons, and a lot of them are incredible, unique people, but I almost never meet somebody who’s a match for you. Do you know that?” He leans forward and touches his knee, chipped and raw fingernails on his navy chinos. “You have so much in you, it’s almost impossible to match it. But he’s your match, dumbass.”

Atsumu stares at him, trying to process what the hell he just said. He looks down at the magazine and feels the corner of his mouth tug upward. He can’t believe Osamu kept it all these years.

“He looks so different,” he says after a long minute, gazing down at the small Kiyoomi on the pages, and his easy, unfledged sureness. “I mean like, obviously he’s different, he was a kid here, but in the way he carries himself.” His fingertips skate over the page like they did when he was younger, brushing pixelated dark curls. “It pisses me off sometimes, thinking about everything he’s been through. He’s a good person. He really cares, and he _tries._ He never deserved any of it.”

Osamu leans in. “Have you ever told him that?” 

“We don’t really…” Atsumu coughs. “Talk like that. Or about most things.” 

His brother glares at him. “I hate gay people.” he jokes. “You have to talk to him, or else it’s not going to work. That’s how me and Rin have lasted this long.” 

Atsumu nods, and makes a mental note to talk to Kiyoomi. 

* * *

Once Osamu knows, their circle of “knowing” is up to a tight seven.

Before Kiyoomi, most of his romantic entanglements as FSOTUS were one-off incidents that involved Bokuto or Akaashi confiscating phones before the act and pointing at the dotted line on the NDA on the way. Akaashi with mechanical professionalism, Bokuto with the air of a cruise ship director. It was inevitable they would be looped in.

And then there’s Aran, the only member of the royal staff who knows Kiyoomi is gay, excluding his therapist. Aran’s gay too, so it’s not like he cares about Kiyoomi’s preferences, he just wants to make sure they’re not getting him into trouble. He knows for the same reason that Bokuto and Akaashi know: it’s absolutely necessary. 

Then Hinata, who still looks smug every time the subject arises, and Naomi, Kiyoomi’s older sister, who found out when she walked in on one of their late night facetime sessions. Komori seems to have been in on the secret all along. Atsumu imagines he demanded an explanation when Kiyoomi literally made them flee the country under the cover of night after putting his tongue in Atsumu’s mouth in the Kennedy Garden.

Time passes both slowly and quickly all at once. 

All in all, finals come and go with much less fanfare than Atsumu imagined. It’s a week of cramming and presentations and the usual amount of all-nighters, and it’s over. The whole college thing in general went by like that. He didn’t really have the experiences everyone else has, always isolated by fame or harangued by security. 

He graduates, and the whole auditorium gives him a standing ovation, which is weird but kind of cool. A dozen of his classmates want to take a photo with him afterward. They all know him by name. He’s never spoken to any of them before. He smiles for their parents’ iPhones and wonders if he should have tried.

There’s a huge garden party at the White House, and Hinata is there in a blazer and a sly smile, pressing a kiss to the side of Atsumu’s jaw.

He wishes that Kiyoomi was there.

* * *

It starts with a fund-raiser, a silk suit and a big check, a nice white-tablecloth event. It starts, as it always does, with a text. It ends up in a shitty karaoke bar in west Hollywood, neon bright enough that it feels spontaneous even though Bokuto, Akaashi, and the rest of their security have been checking it and warning people against taking photos for half an hour before they arrive. 

“Is that Vodka?” Kiyoomi asks, when Hinata brings a tray of shots over to where they’re sitting. Hinata nods. “Fuck,” Kiyoomi responds. “I haven’t had Vodka since uni, it makes me rather, uh, _unhinged._ ” 

Naomi giggles. “Don’t you mean fun?” 

Kiyoomi scoffs. “Excuse you, I’m a fucking delight.” 

Atsumu laughs loudly and presses a kiss to Kiyoomi’s cheek. 

“Hello, excuse me, can we get another round of these please?” Komori calls down the bar. 

Hinata shrieks, and laughs, already tipsy, and everything starts to go warm and fuzzy in that special way that Atsumu loves. Once things get going, it’s impossible to tell how Osamu is the first one persuaded up to the stage, but he belts out an almost flawless cover of ‘don’t stop believing’ by Journey. Komori is up next and launches himself into a cover of ‘call me’ by Blondie.

Two more rounds of shots and thirty minutes later,it’s finally Kiyoomi’s turn, and he gets up and starts _screaming_ ‘don’t stop me now’ by Queen. He’s so drunk that he’s completely butchering the song, but it’s somehow one of the hottest things that Atsumu’s ever seen. 

He watches Kiyoomi and they grin at each other through the noise. Atsumu feels somewhere, under the fifty layers of booze, and he shares a look with Naomi, a shared knowledge of how rare and wonderful this version of Kiyoomi is.

The night slowly comes to a close and Atsumu can feel himself wishing that it never ends

Kiyomoi’s laughing into the curls at the nape of Atsumu's neck by the time Atsumu is fumbling the door to their hotel room open, and they stumble together into the wall, and then toward the bed, clothes dropping in their wake. Kiyoomi smells like expensive cologne and champagne and a distinctly Kiyoomi smell that never goes away, 

Kiyoomi presses him into the mattress and after they fuck, Kiyoomi rolls Atsumu onto his side and burrows behind him until he’s covering him completely, his shoulders a brace for Atsumu’s shoulders, one of his thighs pressed on top of Atsumu’s thighs, his arms over his and his hands over Atsumu’s hands, nowhere left untouched. It’s the best he’s slept in years.

Their alarms go off three hours later for their flights home.

They shower together. Kiyoomi’s mood turns dark and sour over morning coffee at the harsh reality of returning to London so soon, and Atsumu kisses him dumbly and promises to call and wishes there was more he could do. He wishes there was more he could do about _everything,_ about Kiyoomi’s moods, about their situation, but there isn’t, and it feels like it’s tearing him apart. 

He watches Kiyoomi lather up and shave, put pomade in his hair, put on his Burberry for the day, and he catches himself wishing he could watch it every day. He likes taking Kiyoomi apart, loves watching his pieces fall out of place, but there’s something incredibly intimate about sitting on the bed they wrecked the night before, the only one who watches him create Prince Kiyoomi for the day.

They meet the others in the hallway, all of them looking their best for how hungover they are. 

Bokuto chuckles under his breath when he meets them at the elevators, a tray of six coffees balanced on one hand. Hangover tending isn’t part of his job description, but he’s a mother hen.

“So this is the gang now, huh?”

And through it all, Atsumu realizes with a start: He has friends now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos and or a comment if u liked this, theyre what really motivate me to keep writing!


	9. nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if kita is kind of ooc, i tried my best to write him in character but while sticking to the outline of the book!

The invitation comes certified airmail straight from Buckingham Palace. Gilded edges, spindly calligraphy: THE CHAIRMAN AND COMMITTEE OF MANAGEMENT OF THE CHAMPIONSHIPS REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF THE COMPANY OF MIYA ATSUMU IN THE ROYAL BOX ON THE 6TH OF JULY, 2020.

Atsumu takes a picture and texts it to Kiyoomi.

  1. tf is this? aren’t there poor people in your country?
  2. i’ve already been in the royal box



Kiyoomi sends back, **you are a plague,** and then **please come?**

And so here Atsumu is, spending his day off from the campaign at Wimbledon, only to get his body next to Kiyoomi's again. 

“So, as I’ve warned you,” Kiyoomi says as they approach the doors to the Royal Box, “My brother will be here. And assorted other nobility with whom you may have to make conversation. People named Basil.”

“I think I’ve proven that I can handle royals.”

Kiyoomi looks doubtful. “You’re brave. I could use some of that.”

The words hit Atsumu hard, for Kiyoomi is perhaps the bravest one of them all, and it hurts that he doesn't know it.

The sun is, for once, bright over London when they step outside, flooding the stands around them, which have already mostly filled with spectators. He notices David Beckham in a well-tailored suit—once again, how had he convinced himself he was straight?—before David Beckham turns away and Atsumu sees it was Naomi he was talking to, her face bright when she spots them.

"Atsumu! Kiyo!" she chirps over the murmur over the crowd. She's a vision in a sundress and Gucci sunglasses perched on her nose. 

"You look gorgeous," Atsumu says, letting her kiss his cheek. She thanks him, and grabs one of each of their hands in hers, whisking them down the steps to the royal box. 

Kiyoomi looks at the lush green cushions of the seats topped with thick and shiny _WIMBLEDON 2020_ programs, right at the front edge of the box. "Front and center?" he says nervously. "Really?" 

Atsumu lets go of Naomi's hand to sit down next to Kiyoomi and entwine their fingers. He squeezes Kiyoomi's hand tightly, a subtle reassurance and a reminder that they're doing this _together._

“Yes, Kiyo, in case you have forgotten, you are a royal and this is the Royal Box.” She waves down to the photographers below, who are already snapping photos of them, before leaning into them and whispering, “Don’t worry, I don’t think they can tell a thing from here, you too are safe.”

Kiyoomi sighs, and Atsumu wishes he knew how to help him. The cameras flash again and Kiyoomi drops his hand discreetly. Atsumu acts like the loss of contact doesn't hurt him at all, just plasters his smile onto his face for the cameras. Kiyoomi keeps his elbows carefully tucked into his sides and out of Atsumu's space.

It’s halfway through the day when Akiro and his wife arrive. Akiro looking as generically handsome as ever. Atsumu thinks that he looks like a stick photo. 

“Morning,” says as he takes his reserved seat to the side of Naomi. His eyes track over Atsumu twice, and Atsumu can sense skepticism as to why he was even allowed. Maybe it’s weird Atsumu is here. He doesn’t care. His wife is looking at him weird too, but maybe she’s simply holding a grudge about her wedding cake.

“Kiyoomi,” Akiro says. Kiyoomi's hand is tense on the program in his lap. “Good to see you, mate. Been a bit busy, have you? Gap year and all that?”

There’s an implication under his tone. _Where exactly have you been? What exactly have you been doing?_ A muscle flexes in Kiyoomi's sharp jaw.

"Yes," Kiyoomi responds, voice thick but dry and serious. "Lots of work with Komori." 

"Ah yes," Akiro says. “Shame he couldn’t make it today. Suppose we’ll have to make do with our American friend, then?”

At that, he tips a dry smile at Atsumu. 

“Yep,” Atsumu says, too loud. He grins broadly.

“Though, I do suppose Komori would look a bit out of place in the Box, wouldn’t he?”

 _“Akiro,"_ Naomi says.

Akiro rolls his eyes. "Don't be dramatic, Naomi. He's a poor looking one, he wouldn't fit in here at all." 

Kiyoomi stares at his brother sharply. "If you'll excuse me," he says, and stands up to leave. He drops his program in his seat and vanishes. 

Ten minutes later, Atsumu finds him in the clubhouse by a gigantic vase of lurid fuchsia flowers. His eyes are intent on Atsumu the moment he sees him, his lip chewed the same furious red as the embroidered Union Jack on his pocket square.

"Hello Miya," he says, tone flat. 

Atsumu winces internally at the use of his last name, but takes on Kiyoomi's tone and says, "Hi." 

“Has anyone shown you round the clubhouse yet?”

“Nope.”

“Well, then.”

Kiyoomi touches two fingers to the back of his elbow, and Atsumu obeys immediately.

Down a flight of stairs, through a concealed side door and a second hidden corridor, there is a small room full of chairs and tablecloths and one old, abandoned tennis racquet. As soon as the door is closed behind them, Kiyoomi slams him up against it.

They kiss for a while, and they're close to having sex right there in the storage closet, but Atsumu says, "Let's get out of here," before they can get that far. 

So, they steal away behind a crowd, blocked by PPOs and umbrellas, and back at Kensington, Kiyoomi brings Atsumu up to his rooms.

Kiyoomi's bedroom is as cavernous and opulent and insufferably beige as Atsumu could have imagined, with a gilded baroque bed and windows overlooking the gardens. He watches Kiyoomi shrug out of his suit and imagines having to live in it, wondering if he simply isn’t allowed to choose what his rooms look like or if he never wanted to ask for something different. All those nights Kiyoomi can’t sleep, just knocking around these endless, impersonal rooms, like a bird trapped in a museum. He feels bad for him, wishes that he could give him some of his freedom, or just steal Kiyoomi away and hide them away on some tropical island in the middle of nowhere. 

The only room that really feels like Kiyoomi is the room that's been converted into a music studio. The colors are richest here: hand-woven Turkish rugs in deep reds and violets, a tobacco-colored settee. Chairs and knickknacks spring up like mushrooms and the walls are lined with paintings, a stack of violin cases and a piano in one corner. 

Kiyoomi sits down at it and plucks away idly, toying with the melody of something that sounds like an old song by The Killers. Haru the cat quietly near the pedals.

"Play something else," Atsumu says. "Something classical." 

Kiyoomi plays a few things by different composers, explaining that _this_ is what Brahms sounds like and _this_ is Debussy. He switches into a sonata by someone whose name Atsumu can't pronounce, then, without warning, it changes again, turbulent chords circling back into something familiar—the Elton John songbook. Kiyoomi closes his eyes, playing from memory. It’s “Your Song.” _Oh._

And Atsumu's heart doesn’t spread itself out in his chest, and he doesn’t have to grip the edge of the settee to steady himself. Because that’s what he would do if he were here in this palace to fall in love with Kiyoomi, and not just continuing this thing where they fly across the world to touch each other and don’t talk about it. That’s not why he’s here. It’s not.

He can't fall in love with Kiyoomi. They're just friends who fuck, and sometimes spend the night. 

They make out lazily for what could be hours on the settee, and eventually they stagger back up the stairs to Kiyoomi's room and Kiyoomi lets Atsumu take him apart for hours. 

When they come back down, Kiyoomi practically passes out on his chest without another word, fucked-out and boneless, and Atsumu laughs to himself and pets his sweaty curls and listens to the soft snores that come almost immediately.

It takes him hours to fall asleep, though.

Kiyoomi drools on him. Haru finds his way onto the bed and curls up at their feet. Atsumu has to be back on a plane for DNC prep in a matter of hours, but he can’t sleep. It’s jet lag. It’s just jet lag.

He remembers, as if from a million miles away, telling Kiyoomi once not to overthink this.

* * *

It goes horribly. 

**id like to see a cage match between this bastard running against my mom and ur grandmother** Atsumu texts Kiyoomi. It's going horribly, the crowd swayed by the republican candidate. 

Osamu looks at him, eyes tired, searching his face. He may be the more popular twin, but politics is Atsumu's game, not his. He knows he would have chosen this life for himself given the option; he knows Osamu wouldn’t have.

“I think … I need to sleep. For, like, the next year. At least. Wake me up after the general.”

"Okay, 'Samu," he says, leaning down to ruffle his brother's hair. "I can do that." 

"Thanks, bro," Osamu says back. "Love you." 

"Love you too. Now sleep." 

Bokuto is waiting for him out in the hallway, his suit abandoned for plainclothes.

“Hanging in there?” he asks Atsumu.

“I mean, I kind of have to.”

Bokuto pats him on the shoulder with one gigantic hand. “There’s a bar downstairs.”

Atsumu considers it. “Yeah, okay." He sits down at the bar, and orders a whiskey.

He wants to call Kiyoomi. He guesses it makes sense—they’ve always been fixed points in each other’s worlds, little magnetic poles. Some laws of physics would be reassuring right now.

God, whiskey makes him maudlin. He orders another.

He contemplates texting Kiyoomi, even though he’s probably somewhere over the Atlantic, when a voice curls around his ear, smooth and warm. He’s sure he must be imagining it, that the tiredness of the day is catching up to him with one cruel hallucination. 

“I’ll have a gin and tonic, thanks,” it says, and there’s Kiyoomi himself, real and in the flesh, sidled up next to him at the bar, looking a little tousled in a soft gray button-down and jeans. 

"You look tragic like that, you know," Kiyoomi says. "Drinking alone, I mean." 

It's definitely the real Kiyoomi then. then. “You’re—what are you doing here?”

“You know, as a figurehead of one of the most powerful countries in the world, I do manage to keep abreast on international politics.”

Atsumu raises an eyebrow.

Kiyoomi inclines his head, sheepish. “I sent Komori home without me because I was worried.”

“There it is,” Atsumu says with a wink. He goes for his drink to hide what he suspects is a small, sad smile; the ice clacks against his teeth. He hates people being worried about him, hates that people care, but it's also nice to know that Kiyoomi is thinking about him.

“Cheers,” Kiyoomi says as the bartender returns with his drink.

He takes the first sip, sucking lime juice off his thumb, and fuck, he looks _good._ There’s color in his cheeks and lips, the glow of Brooklyn summertime warmth that his English blood isn’t accustomed to. He looks like something soft and downy that Atsumu wants to sink into. He realizes with a start that the growing know of anxiety in his chest is finally starting to untangle. 

They sit there until Kiyoomi finishes his drink, Atsumu listening to the placating murmur of him talking about different brands of gin, thankful that for once Kiyoomi seems happy to carry the conversation alone. He closes his eyes, wills the disaster of the day away, and tries to forget. He remembers Kiyoomi's words in the garden months ago: “Do you ever wonder what it’s like to be some anonymous person out in the world?”

If he’s some anonymous, normal person, removed from history, he’s twenty-two and he’s tipsy and he’s pulling a guy into his hotel room by the belt loop. He’s pulling a lip between his teeth, and he’s fumbling behind his back to switch on a lamp, and he’s thinking, _I like this person. ~~I might even be in love.~~_

They break apart, and when Atsumu opens his eyes, Kiyoomi is watching him.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?

Atsumu groans.

The thing is, he _does,_ and Kiyoomi knows this too.

But instead, he pushes Kiyoomi down into the mattress, undresses him slowly, and kisses him until he can't breathe. 

* * *

The pounding on his door comes much too early for Atsumu to handle loud noises. There’s a sharpness to it he recognizes instantly as Kita before he even speaks, and wonders why the hell he didn’t just call before he reaches for his phone and finds it dead. Shit. That would explain the missed alarm.

"Miya Atsumu, it is almost seven,” Kita shouts through the door. “You have a strategy meeting in fifteen minutes and I have a key, so I don’t care how naked you are, if you don’t answer this door in the next thirty seconds, I’m coming in. There are some things I absolutely do not want to see but you need to get your ass out of this room right now.”

He is, he realizes as he rubs his eyes, extremely naked. A cursory examination of the body pressed up against his back: Kiyoomi, very comprehensively naked as well.

“Oh fuck me,” Atsumu swears, sitting up so fast he gets tangled in the sheet and flails sideways out of bed.

“Blurgh,” Kiyoomi groans.

“Fucking shit,” says Atsumu , whose vocabulary is apparently now only expletives. He yanks himself free and scrambles for his chinos. “Goddammit ass fucker.”

“What,” Kiyoomi says flatly to the ceiling.

“I can hear you in there, Atsumu, I swear to God—”

There’s another sound from the door, like Kita has kicked it, and Kiyoomi flies out of bed too. He is truly a picture, wearing an expression of bewildered panic and absolutely nothing else. He eyes the curtains furtively, as if considering hiding in them.

“Jesus tits,” Atsumu continues as he fumbles to pull his pants up. He snatches a shirt and boxers at random from the floor, shoves them at Kiyoomi's chest, and points him toward the closet. “Get in there.”

Kiyoomi snorts. "Fucking hell." 

"Yes, we can unpack the ironic symbolism later. _Go,_ ” Atsumu says, and he does, and when the door swings open, Kita is standing there, thermos and clipboard in hand, wearing a furious expression on his face. 

“Uh, morning,” he says.

Kita's eyes spot the two pillows that have been slept on and the two phones on the nightstand and his face goes tight with concern. 

"Who is she? Why the hell did ya let her bring a phone in here? Please tell me she signed an NDA." 

“Nobody, Jesus,” Atsumu says, but his voice cracks in the middle. Kita arches an eyebrow. “What? I got kinda drunk last night, that’s all. It’s chill.”

“Yes, it is so very, very chill that you’re going to be hungover for today,” Kita says, rounding on him.

“I’m fine,” he says. “It’s fine.”

As if on cue, there’s a series of bumps from the other side of the closet door, and Kiyoomi, halfway into Atsumu's boxers, comes literally tumbling out of the closet.

It is, Atsumu thinks half-hysterically, a very solid visual pun.

“Er,” Kiyoomi says from the floor. He finishes pulling Atsumu's boxers up his hips. Blinks. “Hello.”

The silence stretches.

“I—” Kita begins. “Do I even want you to explain to me what the fuck is happening here? Literally how is he even _here,_ like, physically or geographically, and _why_ —no, nope. Don’t answer that. Don’t tell me anything.” He unscrews the top of his thermos and takes a pull of coffee. “Oh my God, did _I_ do this? I never thought … when I set it up … oh my _God._ ”

Kiyoomi has pulled himself off the floor and put on a shirt, and his ears are bright red. “I think, perhaps, if it helps. It was. Er. Rather inevitable. At least for me. So you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

“Well, I hope it was _fun,_ because if anyone ever finds out about this, we’re all fucked,” Kita says. He points at Kiyoomi. “You too. Can I assume I don’t have to make you sign an NDA?”

“I’ve already signed one for him,” Atsumu offers up, while Kiyoomi's ears turn from red to an alarming shade of purple. Six hours ago, he was sinking drowsily into Kiyoomi's chest, and now he’s standing here half-naked, talking about the paperwork. He fucking hates paperwork. “I think that covers it.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Kita says. “I’m so glad you thought this through. Great. How long has this been happening? And mad as I am right now, I'm really happy that you found someone, Atsumu." 

“Since, um. New Year’s,” Atsumu says.

_"Since New Year's?"_

Atsumu winces. “Please don’t tell Mom.”

Kita sighs. "I won't. I would never out you to her, but after all of this is over, you have to tell her." 

Atsumu nods. 

“Would it make any difference at all if I told you not to see him again?”

Atsumu looks over at Kiyoomi, looking rumpled and nauseated and terrified and somehow still beautiful at the corner of the bed. “No.”

Kita sighs again. "Every time I see you it takes a year off of my lifespan." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment if u enjoyed i love reading them and they really motivate me to write!


	10. ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> coming out and some emails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so short, next update will be soon and will be a long one!

“Okay,” he says.

Atsumu's mother sits across from him, arms folded in expectation.

His palms are starting to sweat. The room is small, one of the lesser conference rooms in the West Wing. He knows he could have asked her to lunch or something, but, well, he kind of panicked.

He guesses he should just do it, but it's never really that easy, is it? Coming out is hard, and it's not like he's ever going to get used to it. 

“I’ve been, um,” Atsumu starts. “I’ve been figuring some stuff out about myself, lately. And … I wanted to let you know, because you’re my mom, and I want you to be a part of my life, and I don’t want to hide things from you. And also it’s, um, relevant to the campaign, from an image perspective.”

"Okay," his mother says, voice neutral.

"Okay," he parrots back to her. "So uh, I'm bisexual." 

Her expression relaxes and she opens up her arms, relieved. "Is that all? I was so worried it was going to be something bad," she says, laughing a little bit. She reaches across the table and covers Atsumu's hand with her own. "That's great, honey, I'm happy for you." 

Atsumu smiles back at her, but he's not done yet, there's still one last bomb to drop onto her. "There's something else too," he says. "I kind of met someone?" He phrases it like a question, unsure of how she's going to react. 

"Oh, that's great!" she says. "I hope you had them do all of the paperwork and--" 

“It’s, uh,” he interrupts her. “It’s Kiyoomi.”

There's a beat of silence. She frowns. "Kiyoomi...?"

"Yeah, Kiyoomi. Sakusa Kiyoomi." 

"As in the prince?" 

Atsumu nods. 

“Of England?”

“Yes.”

"So not another Kiyoomi with the same last name, you mean _the_ Sakusa Kiyoomi."

Atsumu nods again. 

“I thought you hated him?” she says. “Or … now you’re friends with him?”

“Both true at different points in time. But uh, now we’re, like, a thing. Have been. A thing. For, like, seven-ish months? I guess?”

"Okay," she says slowly. "So there's some things we need to go over, okay? Because as happy as I am for you, this is a political shitshow." 

She’s mostly concerned with making sure he hasn’t used any federally funded private jets to see Kiyoomi for exclusively personal visits—he hasn’t—and with making him fill out a bunch of paperwork to cover both their asses. It feels clinical and wrong, checking little boxes about his relationship, especially when half are asking things he hasn’t even discussed with Kiyoomi yet.

It’s agonizing, but eventually it’s over, and he doesn’t die, which is something. His mother takes the last form and seals it up in an envelope with the rest. She sets it aside and takes off her reading glasses, setting those aside too. "Okay, kiddo?" 

He nods. "Okay." 

* * *

_Email Contents, 8/10/2020 1:04 pm_

_atsumumiya@whitehouse.com to princekiyoomi@kensington.com_

_Subject: hey_

_I miss you. I know we don't do things like that really, but I miss you. Ever since I came out to my mom and got kicked from the campaign, I'm just stuck in my room. There's so much happening and I just wish I could do something._

_Well that's all I really wanted to say sorry. I like writing you emails. It feels more personal, like something historic. One day, they'll find these and immortalize them in the library of congress. History, huh? I bet we could make some._

_Affectionately yours and going insane,_

_\- Atsumu_

* * *

_Email Contents, 8/10/2020 4:18 pm_

_princekiyoomi@kensington.com to atsumumiya@whitehouse.com_

_RE: hey_

_I miss you as well. Every time you mention how you're stuck and decaying in the White House, I feel like it's my fault, and I really feel like shit about it. I'm so sorry. I should have known better than to turn up at a thing like that. I got carried away; I didn’t think. I know how much that job meant to you._

_I just want you to know, I'm here for you, and again, as Mitski said, I miss you more than anything._

_Love,_

_\- Kiyoomi_

* * *

_Email Contents, 8/10/2020 5:36 pm_

_atsumumiya@whitehouse.com to princekiyoomi@kensington.com_

_Don't be stupid. No part of this will never not be complicated. I hope all of those negatives don't cancel each other out, you know what I mean._ _ I'm just going blindly in a certain direction and hoping for the best. I guess that makes you the North Star? I want to see you again, and soon.  _

_ We have this annual thing down at my dad's house in TX.  Whole long weekend off the grid. There’s a lake with a pier, and my dad always cooks something fucking amazing. You wanna come? I kind of can’t stop thinking about you all sunburned and pretty sitting out there in the country. It’s the weekend after next. If Aran can talk to Kita or somebody about flying you into Austin, we can pick you up from there. Say yes? _

_ Yrs, _

_ Alex _

* * *

_Email Contents, 8/10/2020 8:22 pm_

_princekiyoomi@kensington.com to atsumumiya@whitehouse.com_

_ If I’m north, I shudder to think where in God’s name we’re going. _

_ I’m in for the lake house. I must admit, I’m glad you’re getting out of the house. I worry you may burn the thing down. Does this mean I’ll be meeting your father? I hope he likes me, I know it's hard to.  _

_ I miss you still.  _

_ x  _

_ \- Kiyoomi _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> texas trip next chapter!! those of u who've read the book know that means that a lot's abt to happen hehe! please leave kudos or a comment if u enjoyed :p
> 
> some of my other fics u can read while u wait for the next update:   
> [doing what i can](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28843980) \- nonbinary oikawa ft iwaoi getting together !!  
> [be whatever you want](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28843980) \- halloween kagehina  
> [ashes ashes, (dust to dust)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28444845) \- sakuatsu character study  
> all of these are completed!


	11. eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> texas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Atsumu cranks up the stereo and feels like he could throw anything away on the wind whipping through his hair and it would just float away like it never was, as if nothing matters but the rush and skip in his chest.

But behind it all, there's the hurt of losing his campaign job, the restless days spent pacing his room, his emails with Kiyoomi, and his mother's questions. _Do you feel forever about him?_

Hinata and Osamu are in the car with him, driving to pick up Kiyoomi from the airport too. Hinata has his summer playlist on, and the bassline of 'Starships' by Nicki Minaj thunders through the wind that rushes into the Jeep from where the windows are rolled down. 

He tips his head up to the sun, sticking it out of the window. The Texas air is warm on his skin, and it feels almost as home as Kiyoomi does. So, no more big thoughts for today. 

Outside the hangar when they get there is Kiyoomi and a handful of PPO's. He's dressed in shorts and a short sleeved chambray, his Burberry weekender bag slung over his shoulder and a pair of fashionable sunglasses resting on his nose. He's a goddamn summer dream, and Atsumu wants to _devour_ him. 

“Yes, hello, hello, it’s good to see you too!” Kiyoomi is saying from somewhere inside a smothering hug from Hinata and Osamu. Atsumu bites his lip and watches Kiyoomi squeeze their waists in return, and then Atsumu has him, inhaling the clean smell of him, laughing into the crook of his neck.

“Hi, love,” he hears Kiyoomi say quietly, privately, right into the bleached blonde hair above his ear, and Atsumu's brain forgets how to do anything but laugh helplessly. He's missed him so much that it's consumed him, and he doesn't know what to do now that he has him here with him again 

Atsumu can’t help glancing over at him, feeling giddy that Kiyoomi-- Kiyoomi the prince, the prince of England-- is _here,_ in Texas, coming home with him. He reaches over and takes Kiyoomi's free hand into his own to make sure that he's not dreaming, lacing their fingers together on the console between them. 

When they get to the house, Atsumu goes inside to help his father cook. 

Down by the dock, Hinata and Osamu are embroiled in what looks like an improvised jousting match, charging at each other on the backs of inflatable animals with pool noodles. Kiyoomi is tipsy and shirtless and attempting to referee, standing on the dock with one foot on a piling and waving a bottle of Shiner around like a madman.

Atsumu smiles a little to himself, watching them. Kiyoomi and his best friends.

After dinner, he and Kiyoomi drift to a swing at the edge of the porch, and he curls into Kiyoomi's side, buries his face in the collar of his shirt. Kiyoomi puts an arm around him, touches the hinge of Atsumu's jaw with fingers that smell like smoke and a smell that is distinctly Kiyoomi himself.

The breeze keeps moving to meet the highest branches of the trees, and the water keeps rising to meet the bulkheads, and Kiyoomi leans down to meet Atsumu's mouth, and Atsumu is. Well, Atsumu is so in love he could die. This thing they have together is going to kill him one day. 

* * *

He wakes up tangled in Kiyoomi's arms and with a small stone of certainty in his chest. 

It's something about being home-- the separation from DC, the familiar smells of his childhood, the roots. He could go outside and dig his fingers into the springy ground and understand anything about himself.

And he does understand, really. He loves Kiyoomi, loves him with everything that he is, and it’s nothing new.

He’s been falling in love with Kiyoomi for years, probably since he first saw him in glossy print on the pages of _J14,_ almost definitely since he pinned Atsumu to the floor of a medical supply closet and told him to shut the hell up. That long. That much. It's long consumed him. 

He smiles as he reaches for a frying pan, because he knows it’s exactly the kind of surprise he can’t resist.

By the time Kiyoomi comes wandering into the kitchen in his pajamas, Atsumu is flipping his dozenth pancake and the coffee maker is on, filling the kitchen with delicious smells. 

Atsumu reaches back and gets a hand in Kiyoomi's curly hair before he can move, pulling him into a kiss on the mouth this time. Kiyoomi huffs a little in surprise but returns it fully.

Atsumu forgets, momentarily, about the pancakes and everything else, not because he wants to do absolutely filthy things to Kiyoomi-- but because he _loves_ him, and isn’t that wild, to know that _that’s_ what makes the filthy things so good.

Someone, who sounds distinctly like Osamu, coughs, and Kiyoomi springs back from Atsumu so hard he almost hits his head on the counter and dies. 

His brother sidles up to the coffee maker, smirking at both of them, Hinata behind them. 

“That doesn’t seem sanitary,” Hinata is saying with a yawn as he folds himself into a chair at the table.

“Sorry,” Kiyoomi says sheepishly, a blush starting to rise onto his face. 

“Don’t be,” Osamu tells him.

“I’m not,” Atsumu says, smirking. 

“Atsumu, you did all this?”

Atsumu shrugs, and Osamu squints at him, bleary but knowing.

They go swimming, eat lunch, and get drunk again. He kisses Kiyoomi so many times that he loses count of the time. 

It’s good. It’s really, really good.

Maybe losing the campaign job isn't the worst thing that could've happened to him, he thinks. 

He can't sleep, though, he lies awake in a bed that's familiar, but hasn't been slept in in over a year. 

"Omi?" he asks. "You awake?" 

Kiyoomi sighs. "Always." 

They sneak through the grass in hushed voices past one of Kiyoomi's PPOs dozing on the porch, racing down the pier, shoving at each other’s shoulders. Atsumu looks at him and something so buoyant fills up his chest that he feels like he could swim the length of the lake without stopping for air. He throws his T-shirt down at the end of the pier and starts to shuck his boxers, and when Kiyoomi arches an eyebrow at him, he laughs and jumps into the lake. 

“You’re a menace,” Kiyoomi says when Atsumu breaks back to the surface. But he only hesitates briefly before he’s stripping out of his clothes.

Atsumu laughs. "I'm your menace." 

Kiyoomi grins at him. "Yeah, you are." 

He stands naked at the edge of the pier, looking at Atsumu's head and shoulders bobbing in the water. The lines of him are long and languid in the moonlight, just skin and skin and skin lit soft and blue, and he’s so beautiful that Atsumu thinks this moment, the soft shadows and pale thighs and crooked smile, should be the portrait of Kiyomi that goes down in history. There are fireflies winking around his head, landing in his curls. A crown.

They chase each other around the pier, race down to the lake’s shallow bottom and shoot back up in the moonlight, all elbows and knees. Atsumu finally manages to catch Kiyoomi around the waist, and he pins him, slides his wet mouth over the thudding pulse of Kiyoomi's throat. He wants to stay tangled up in Kiyoomi's legs forever. He wants to match the moles on Kiyoomi's body to the stars above them and make him name the constellations.

“Hey,” he says, his mouth right up in a breath’s space from Kiyoomi's. He watches a drop of water roll down Henry’s perfect nose and disappear into his mouth.

“Hi,” he says back, and Atsumu thinks, _Goddamn, I love him._ It keeps coming back to him, and it’s getting harder to look into Kiyomi's soft and subtle smiles and not say it.

He kicks out a little to turn them in a slow circle. “You look good out here.”

Kiyoomi's sharp jaw goes crooked and his face goes shy. His fingers brush against Atsumu's cheek. "Yeah?" 

Atsumu nods. "Yeah." He twists a wet strand of Kiyoomi's hair around his fingers. “I’m glad you came this weekend,” Atsumu hears himself say. “It’s been so intense lately. I … I really needed this. I really needed to see you." 

Kiyoomi sighs at him. "You carry too much, Atsu." 

"You know what I'm thinking about right now?" 

"What?" 

“I’m thinking about, after inauguration, like next year, taking you back out here, just the two of us. And we can sit under the moon and not stress about anything. We can just be ourselves and it will never matter if anyone sees because we have each other, and for me, that's enough." 

“Well. It will matter, you know. It will always matter. And it's not always enough, Atsu." 

He pulls back to find Kiyoomi's face indecipherable.

“You know what I mean.”

Kiyoomi's looking at him and looking at him, and Atsumu can’t shake the feeling that he's really seeing him for the first time. He realizes it’s probably the only time he’s ever invited love into a conversation with Kiyoomi on purpose, and it must be lying wide open on his face.

Something moves behind Kiyoomi's eyes, and it scares Atsumu a little; he doesn't know where Kiyoomi is going to take this thing that he's offered him. “Where are you going with all this?”

Atsumu tries to figure out how the hell to funnel everything he needs to tell Kiyoomi into words.

"It’s like I never learned how to just be where I am.” Atsumu takes a breath. “And where I am is here. With you. And I’m thinking maybe I should start trying to take it day by day. And just … feel what I feel.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t say anything.

“Sweetheart.” The water ripples quietly around him as he slides his hands up to hold Kiyoomi's face in both palms, tracing his cheekbones with the wet pads of his thumbs.

The cicadas and the wind and the lake are probably still making sounds, somewhere, but it’s all faded into silence. Atsumu can’t hear anything but his heartbeat in his ears.

“Kiyoomi, I—”

Abruptly Kiyoomi shifts, ducking beneath the surface and out of his arms before he can say anything else.

He pops back up near the pier, hair sticking to his forehead, and Atsumu turns around and stares at him, breathless at the loss. Kiyoomi spits out lake water and sends a splash in his direction, and Atsumu forces a hollow laugh.

“Christ,” Kiyoomi says, slapping at a bug that’s landed on him, “what are these infernal creatures?”

“Mosquitos,” Atsumu supplies.

“They’re awful,” the prince says loftily. “I’m going to catch an exotic plague.”

Atsumu laughs weakly again, but he’s got a distinct feeling of something being pulled out of his hands right before he could grasp it. Kiyoomi's tone has gone light, clipped, superficial. His press voice. He's never used that voice with him before. 

“At any rate, I’m knackered,” Kiyoomi is saying now. And Atsumu watches helplessly as he turns and starts hauling himself out of the water and onto the dock, pulling his shorts back up shivering legs. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll go to bed.”

Atsumu doesn’t know what to say, so he watches Kiyoomi walk the long line of the dock, disappearing into the darkness.

* * *

In the morning, Kiyoomi is gone. 

Atsumu wakes up to find his bunk empty and made up, the pillow tucked neatly beneath the blanket. He practically throws the door off its hinges running out onto the patio, only to find it empty as well. The yard is empty, the pier is empty. It’s like he was never even there.

He finds the note in the kitchen:

> _ Atsu, _
> 
> _ Had to go early for a family matter. Left with the PPOs. Didn’t want to wake you. _
> 
> _ Thank you for everything. _
> 
> _ X _

It’s the last message Kiyoomi sends him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry i had to do this to yall. next update should be soon, thanks for all the support on this so far.


	12. twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shit goes down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go, sorry this took so long my depressions been rlly bad and i havent really had motivation to write :/

He sends Kiyoomi five texts the first day. Two the second. By day three, none. He’s spent too much of his life talking, talking, talking not to know the signs when someone doesn’t want to hear him anymore.

He starts forcing himself to only check his phone once every two hours instead of once an hour, makes himself hang on by his fingernails until the minutes tick down. A few times, he gets wrapped up in obsessively reading press coverage of the campaign and realizes he hasn’t checked in hours, and every time he’s hit with a hiccupping, desperate hope that there will be something. There never is.

Atsumu wants to hear from Kiyoomi so badly, but he knows that he's not going to. 

He thought he was reckless before, but he understands now—holding love off was the only thing keeping him from losing himself in this completely, and he’s gone, stupid, lovesick, a fucking disaster. No work to distract him. The tripwire of “Things Only People in Love Say and Do” set off.

And eventually, it's too fucking much, he misses Kiyoomi, misses him so much he thinks it's killing him. 

What he does next, he’s sure he’ll have no memory of doing, simply a white-noise gap of time that got him from point A to point B. He texts Bokuto, **what are you doing for the next 24 hours?** Then he unearths the emergency credit card from his wallet and buys two plane tickets, first class, nonstop. Boarding in two hours. Dulles International to Heathrow.

Kita almost refuses to secure him a car, saying that because Atsumu had the goddamn nerve to go without telling him, that he shouldn't be helping him. It’s dark and pissing down rain when they land in London around nine in the evening, and he and Bokuto are both soaked the second they climb out of the car inside the back gates of Kensington.

Clearly, someone has radioed for Aran, because he’s standing there at the door to Kiyoomi's apartments in an impeccable gray peacoat, dry and unmoved under a black umbrella.

"Atsumu," he says. "What a treat." 

Atsumu glares at him. "Move, Aran. Let me see him." 

“Kita called ahead to warn me that you were on the way,” he says. “As you might have guessed by the ease with which you were able to get through our gates. We thought it best to let you kick up a fuss somewhere more private.”

“Move.”

Aran smiles, like he's enjoying watching the two Americans get slowly waterlogged. “You’re aware it’s quite late, and it’s well within my power to have security remove you. No member of the royal family has invited you into the palace.”

"Bullshit," Atsumu says. "I need to see Kiyoomi." 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. The prince does not wish to be disturbed.”

“Goddammit—Kiyoomi!” He sidesteps Aran and starts shouting up at Kiyoomi's bedroom windows, where there’s a light on. Fat raindrops are pelting his eyeballs. “Kiyoomi, you motherfucker!”

“'Tsumu—” says Bokuto's nervous voice behind him.

“Kiyoomi, you piece of shit, get your ass down here!”

“You're making a scene,” Aram says placidly.

“Yeah?” Atsumu says, still yelling. “How ’bout I just keep yelling and we see which of the papers show up first!” He turns back to the window and starts flailing his arms too. “Kiyoomi! Your Royal fucking Highness!”

Aran touches a finger to his earpiece. “Team Bravo, we’ve got a situa—”

“For fuck's sake, Miya, what are you doing?”

Atsumu freezes, his mouth open around another shout, and there’s Kiyoomi standing behind Aran in the doorway, barefoot in worn-in sweats. Atsumu's heart is going to fall out of his ass. Kiyoomi looks unimpressed.

He drops his arms. “Tell him to let me in.”

Kiyoomi sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine. He can come in.”

“ _Thank_ you,” he says, pointedly looking at Aran, who does not seem to care at all if he dies of hypothermia. He sloshes into the palace, ditching his soaked shoes as Bokuto and Aran disappear behind the door.

Kiyoomi, who led the way in, hasn’t even stopped to speak to him, and all Atsumu can do is follow him up the grand staircase toward his rooms. It's really good to see him, it feels refreshing, but he knows Kiyoomi is still mad at him, and he has no idea what Kiyoomi is going to say to him. 

“Really nice,” Atsumu yells after him, dripping as aggressively as he can manage along the way. He hopes he ruins a rug. “Fuckin’ ghost me for a week, make me stand in the rain, and now you won’t even talk to me. I’m really just having a great time here."

“I’d rather not do this where we might be overheard,” Kiyoomi says, taking a left on the landing.

Atsumu stomps up after him, following him into his bedroom. “Do what?” he says as Kiyoomi shuts the door behind them. “What are you gonna do, Omi?”

Henry turns to face him at last, and now that Alex’s eyes aren’t full of rainwater, he can see the skin under his eyes is papery and purple, rimmed pink at his eyelashes. There’s a tense set to his shoulders Alex hasn’t seen in months, not directed at him at least.

“I’m going to let you say what you need to say,” Kiyoomi says flatly, his eyes flashing “so you can leave.”

Atsumu stares. “What, and then we’re over?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t answer him.

Something rises in his throat—anger, confusion, hurt, bile. Unforgivably, he feels like he might cry.

“Seriously?” he says, helpless and indignant. He’s still dripping. “What the _fuck_ is going on? A week ago it was emails about how much you missed me and meeting my fucking _dad,_ and that’s it? You thought you could fucking _ghost me_? I can’t shut this off like you do, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi paces over to the elaborately carved fireplace across the room and leans on the mantelpiece. “You think I don’t _care_ as much as you?”

“You’re sure as hell acting like it.”

“I honestly haven’t got the time to explain to you all the ways you’re wrong—”

“Jesus, could you stop being an obtuse fucking asshole for, like, twenty seconds?”

“So glad you flew here to _insult me_ —”

“ _I fucking love you, okay?_ ” Atsumu half yells, finally, irreversibly. Kiyoomi goes very still against the mantelpiece. Atsumu watches him swallow, watches the muscle that keeps twitching in his jaw, and feels like he might shake out of his skin. “Fuck, I swear. You don’t make it fucking easy. But I’m in love with you.”

A small _click_ cuts the silence: Kiyoomi has taken his signet ring off and set it down on the mantel. He holds his naked hand to his chest, kneading the palm, the flickering light from the fire painting his face in dramatic shadows. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

“Of course I do—”

"Atsumu _please_ ," Kiyoomi says, and when he finally turns to look at him, he looks wretched, miserable. “Don’t. This is the entire goddamned reason. I can’t do this, and you _know_ why I can’t do this, so _please_ don’t make me say it.”

Atsumu swallows hard. “You’re not even gonna try to be happy?”

“For fuck's sake,” Kiyoomi says, “I’ve been trying to be happy my entire idiot life. My birthright is a _country,_ not happiness.”

“Oh my _God,_ ” Atsumu groans. “So, what, was this all never going to be anything real to you?”

And Kiyoomi snaps.

“You really are a _complete_ idiot if you believe that,” Kiyoomi hisses, his hands balled into fists. “When have I _ever,_ since the first instant I touched you, pretended to be anything less than in love with you? Are you so fucking self-absorbed as to think this is about you and whether or not I love you, rather than the fact I’m an heir to the fucking throne? You at least have the _option_ to not choose a public life eventually, but I will live and die in these palaces and in this family, so don’t you dare come to me and question if I love you when it’s the thing that could ruin everything.”

Atsumu doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, his feet rooted to the spot. Kiyoomi isn’t looking at him, but staring at a point on the mantel somewhere, tugging at his own curls in exasperation.

“It was never supposed to be an issue,” he goes on, his voice hoarse. “I thought I could have some part of you, and just never say it, and you’d never have to know, and one day you’d get tired of me and leave, because I’m—” He stops short, and one shaking hand moves through the air in front of him in a helpless sort of gesture at everything about himself. “I never thought I’d be stood here faced with a choice I can’t make, because I never … I never imagined you would love me back.”

“Well,” Atsumu says. “I do. And you _can_ choose.”

“You know really well that I can’t.”

“You can _try,_ ” Atsumu tells him, feeling as if it should be the simplest fucking truth in the world. “What do you _want_?”

“I want you—”

“Then fucking _have me._ ”

“—but I don’t want _this._ ”

Atsumu wants to grab Kiyoomi and shake him, wants to scream in his face, wants to smash every priceless antique in the room. “What does that even _mean_?”

“I don’t _want_ it!” Kiyoomi practically shouts. His eyes are flashing, wet and angry and afraid. “Don’t you fucking see? I’m not _like_ you. I can’t afford to be _reckless._ I don’t have a family who will support me. I don’t go about shoving who I am in everyone’s faces and dreaming about a career in fucking _politics,_ so I can be _more_ scrutinized and picked apart by the entire godforsaken world. I can love you and want you and still not want that life. I’m allowed, all right, and it doesn’t make me a liar; it makes me a man with some infinitesimal shred of self-preservation, unlike _you,_ and you don’t get to come here and call me a coward for it.”

Atsumu takes a breath. “I never said you were a coward.”

“I.” Kiyoomi blinks. “Well. The point stands.”

“You think _I_ want _your_ life? You think I want _Elizabeth's_? Gilded fucking cage? Barely allowed to _speak_ in public, or have a goddamn opinion—”

“Then what are we even doing here? Why are we fighting, then, if the lives we have to lead are so incompatible?”

“Because you don’t want that either!” Atsumu insists. “You don’t want any of this bullshit. You _hate_ it.”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” Kiyoomi says. “You don't have a clue how it feels.”

“Look, I might not be a fucking royal,” Atsumu says, crosses the horrible rug, moves into Kiyoomi's space, “but I know what it’s like for your whole life to be determined by the family you were born into, okay? The lives we want—they’re _not that different._ Not in the ways that matter. You want to take what you were given and leave the world better than you found it. So do I. We can—we can figure out a way to do that together.”

Kiyoomi stares at him silently, and Atsumu can see the scales balancing in his head.

“I don’t think I can.”

Atsumu turns away from him, falling back on his heels like he’s been slapped. “Fine,” he finally says. “You know what? Fucking fine. I’ll leave.”

“Good.”

“I’ll leave,” he says, and he turns back and leans in, “as soon as you tell me to leave.”

_“Atsumu.”_

He’s in Kiyoomi's face now. If he’s getting his heart broken tonight, he’s sure as hell going to make Kiyoomi have the guts to do it right. “Tell me you’re done with me. I’ll get back on the plane. That’s it. And you can live here in your tower and be miserable forever, write a whole book of sad fucking poems about it. Whatever. Just say it.”

“Fuck you,” Henry says, his voice breaking, and he gets a handful of Alex’s shirt collar, and Alex knows he’s going to love this stubborn shithead forever.

“Tell me,” he says, a ghost of a smile around his lips, “to leave.”

He feels before he registers being shoved backward into a wall, and Kiyoomi's mouth is on his, desperate and wild. The faint taste of blood blooms on his tongue, and he smiles as he opens up to it, pushes it into Kiyoomi's mouth, tugs at his hair with both hands. Kiyoomi groans, and Atsumu feels it in his spine.

They grapple along the wall until Kiyoomi physically picks him up off the floor and staggers backward, toward the bed. Atsumu bounces when his back hits the mattress, and Kiyoomi stands over him for several breaths, staring. Atsumu would give anything to know what’s going through that fucking head of his.

He realizes, suddenly, Kiyoomi's crying.

He swallows.

That’s the thing: he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if this is supposed to be some kind of consummation, or if it’s one last time. He doesn’t think he could go through with it if he knew it was the latter. But he doesn’t want to go home without having this.

“C’mere.”

He makes love to Kiyoomi slow and deep, and if it’s the last time, they go down shivering and gasping and epic, all wet mouths and wet eyelashes, and Alex is a cliché on an ivory bedspread, and he hates himself but he’s so in love. He’s in stupid, unbearable love, and Henry loves him too, and at least for one night it matters, even if they both have to pretend to forget in the morning.

Kiyoomi comes with his face turned into Atsumu's open palm, his bottom lip catching on the knob of his wrist, and Atsumu tries to memorize every detail down to how his lashes fan across his cheeks and the pink flush that spreads all the way up to his ears. He tells his too-fast brain: _Don’t miss it this time. He’s too important._

It’s pitch-black outside when Kiyoomi's body finally subsides, and the room is impossibly quiet, the fire gone out. Atsumu rolls over onto his side and touches two fingers to his chest, right next to where the key on the chain rests. His heart is beating the same as ever under his skin. He doesn’t know how that can be true.

It’s a long stretch of silence before Kiyoomi shifts in the bed beside him and rolls onto his back, pulling a sheet over them. Atsumu reaches for something to say, but there’s nothing.

In the morning, Atsumu wakes up alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos or a comment if u enjoyed theyre what really keep me going


	13. thirteen

It takes a moment for everything to reorient around the fixed point in his chest where last night settled. The elaborate gilded headboard, the heavy embroidered duvet, the soft twill blanket beneath that’s the only thing in the room Kiyoomi actually chose. He slides his hand across the sheet, over to Kiyoomi's side of the bed. It’s cool to the touch.

Kensington Palace is gray and dull in the early morning. The clock on the mantelpiece says it’s not even seven, and there’s a violent rain lashing against the big picture window, half-revealed by parted curtains.

Kiyoomi's room has never felt much like Kiyoomi, but in the morning light, he shows up in bits in pieces throughout the room. A pile of journals on the desk, the topmost splotched with ink from a pen exploding in his bag on a plane. An oversized cardigan, worn through and patched at the elbows, slung over an antique wingback chair near the window. The violin case leaning in a corner. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling for once in his life that he should stop being so damn nosy. It’s time, he realizes, to start accepting only what Kiyoomi can give him.

The sheets smell like Kiyoomi. He knows:

One. Kiyoomi isn’t here.

Two. Kiyoomi never said yes to any kind of future last night.

Three. This could very well be the last time he gets to inhale Kiyoomi's scent on anything.

But, four. Next to the clock on the mantel, Kiyoomi's signet ring still sits.

The doorknob turns, and Atsumu opens his eyes to find Kiyoomi, holding two mugs and smiling a wan, unreadable smile. 

“Your hair in the mornings is truly a wonder to behold,” is how he breaks the silence. He crosses and kneels on the edge of the mattress, offering Atsumu a mug. It’s coffee, one sugar, cinnamon, lots of cream. He doesn’t want to feel anything about Kiyoomi knowing how he likes his coffee, not when he’s about to be dumped, but he does.

“Hi,” Atsumu says carefully, squinting over his coffee. “You seem … less pissy.”

Kiyoomi huffs a laugh. “You’re one to talk. I wasn’t the one who stormed the palace in a fit of rage to call me an ‘obtuse fucking asshole.’”

"Well," Atsumu says. "You _were_ an obtuse fucking asshole." 

Kiyoomi pauses to take a sip of his tea and then places the mug on the nightstand. He leans forward to press his lips against Atsumu's, and he tastes like toothpaste and earl grey, and maybe Atsumu isn't getting dumped after all. 

“Hey,” he says when Kiyoomi pulls back. “Where were you?”

"I needed a run," he says, placing a hand on Atsumu's thigh as he speaks. "To clear my head a bit. And I ran into my brother." 

Atsumu chews his lip. “Where’s this going, babe?”

“We chatted for a bit. He didn’t seem to know about your … visitation … last night, thankfully. But he talked about his wife and everything, and it’s not that he’s unhappy. He’s fine. It’s all very deeply fine. A whole lifetime of fine.” He’s been pulling at a thread on the duvet, but he looks back up, squarely into Atsumu's eyes, and says, “That’s not good enough for me.”

There’s a desperate stutter in Atsumu's heartbeat. “It’s not?”

He reaches up and touches a thumb to Atsumu's cheekbone. “I’m not … good at saying these things like you are, but. I’ve always thought … ever since I knew about me, and even before, when I could sense I was _different_ —and, after everything the past few years, all the mad things my head does—I’ve always thought of myself as a problem that deserved to stay hidden. Never quite trusted myself, or what I wanted. Before you, I was all right letting everything happen to me. I honestly have never thought I deserved to choose.” His hand moves, fingertips brushing a curl behind Atsumu's ear. “But you treat me like I do.”

There’s something painfully hard in Atsumu's throat, but he pushes past it. He reaches over and sets his mug down next to Kiyoomi's on the nightstand. If this were any other moment, he'd find the symbolism in it, but right now he's too focused on Kiyoomi to care. 

“You do deserve to choose,” he says.

“I think I’m actually beginning to believe that,” Kiyoomi says. “And I don’t know how long it would have taken if I didn’t have you to believe for me.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with you,” Atsumu tells him. “I mean, aside from the fact that you’re occasionally an obtuse fucking asshole.”

Kiyoomi laughs again, wetly, his eyes crinkling up in the corners, and Atsumu feels his heart lift into his throat, up to the embellished ceilings, pushing out to fill the whole room.

“I am sorry about that,” Kiyoomi says. “I—I wasn’t ready to hear it. That night, at the lake … it was the first time I let myself think you might actually say it. I panicked, and it was daft and unfair, and I won’t do it again.”

“You better not,” Atsumu tells him. “So, you’re saying … you’re in?”

"I'm saying, I'm terrified, and my life is probably going to end up in shambles because of this, but what the fuck do I have left to lose, besides you?" 

It hits him, fully: the weight of this. How completely neither of them will ever be able to undo it.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m into making history.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and seals it with a smiling kiss, and they fall back into the pillows together, Kiyomi's wet curls and sweatpants and Atsumu's naked limbs all tangled up in the sheets. 

Kiyoomi's hands on him are unhurried and soft, and they make out lazily for hours or days, basking in the rare luxury of it. They take breaks to finish their lukewarm coffee and tea, and Kiyoomi has scones and blackcurrant jam sent up. They waste away the morning in bed, watching Netflix and listening to the rain slow to a drizzle.

At some point, Atsumu disentangles his jeans from the foot of the bed and fishes out his phone. He’s got three missed calls from Kita, one ominous voicemail from his mother, and forty-seven unread messages in his group text with Osamu, Suna, Hinata and Kageyama.

** TSUMU, KITA JUST TOLD ME YOU’RE IN LONDON??????? **

** ATSUMU oh my god **

** I swear to god if you do something stupid and get yourself caught, I’m gonna kill you myself **

** But you went after him!!! That’s SO Jane Austen **

** I’m gonna punch you in the face when you get back. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me **

** How did it go??? Are you with Kiyoomi now????? **

** GONNA PUNCH YOU **

It turns out forty-six out of forty-seven texts are Osamu and the forty-seventh is Hinata asking if either of them know where he left his white Chuck Taylors. Atsumu texts back: **your chucks are under my bed and omi says hi**

The message has barely delivered before his phone erupts with a call from Osamu, who demands to be put on speaker and told everything. After, rather than facing Kita's wrath himself, he convinces Kiyoomi to call Aran.

“D’you think you could, er, phone Kita and let him know Atsumu is safe and with me?”

“Yes, sir,” Aran says. “And should I arrange a car for his departure?”

“Er,” Kiyoomi says, and he looks at Atsumu and mouths, _Stay?_ Atsumu nods. “Tomorrow?”

There’s a very long pause over the line before Aran says, “I’ll let him know,” in a voice like he’d rather do literally anything else.

Atsumu laughs as Kiyoomi hangs up, but he returns to his phone again, to the voicemail waiting from his mother. Kiyoomi sees his thumb hovering over the play button and nudges his ribs.

“I suppose we do have to face the consequences at some point,” he says.

Atsumu sighs. “I don’t think I told you, but she, uh. Well, when she fired me, she told me that if I wasn’t a thousand percent serious about you, I needed to break things off.”

Kiyoomi nuzzles his nose behind Atsumu's ear. “A thousand percent?”

“Yeah, don’t let it go to your head.”

Kiyoomi elbows him again, and Atsumu laughs and grabs his head and aggressively kisses his cheek, smashing his face into the pillow. When Atsumu finally relents, Kiyoomi is pink-faced and mussed and definitely pleased.

“How long have you been thinking about this?”

“Consciously? Since, like, the DNC. Subconsciously, in total denial? A long-ass time. At least since you kissed me.”

Kiyoomi stares at him from the pillow. “That’s … kind of incredible.”

“What about you?”

“What about _me_?” Kiyoomi says. “Fucking hell, Atsu. The whole goddamn time.”

“The whole time?”

“Since the Olympics.”

“The _Olympics_?” Atsumu yanks Kiyoomi's pillow out from under him. “But that’s, that’s like—”

“Yes, Atsu, the day we met, nothing gets past you, does it?” He says, reaching to steal the pillow back. “‘What about you,’ he says, as if he doesn’t _know_ —”

“Shut your _mouth,_ ” Atsumu says, grinning like an idiot, and he stops fighting Kiyoomi for the pillow and instead straddles him and kisses him into the mattress. He pulls the blankets up and they disappear into the pile, a laughing mess of mouths and hands, until Kiyoomi rolls onto his phone and his ass presses the button on the voicemail.

“Atsumu, you insane, hopeless romantic little shit,” says the voice of the President of the United States, muffled in the bed. “It had better be forever. Be safe.”

* * *

Kiyoomi charters a private plane to get him back home, and Atsumu is dreading the dressing-down he’s going to get the minute he’s stateside, but he’s trying not to think about it. At the airstrip, the wind whipping his hair across his forehead, Kiyoomi fishes inside his jacket for something.

“Listen,” he says, pulling a curled fist out of his pocket. He takes one of Atsumu's hands and turns it to press something small and heavy into his palm. “I want you to know, I’m sure. A thousand percent.”

He removes his hand and there, sitting in the center of Atsumu's callused palm, is the signet ring.

“What?” Atsumu's eyes flash up to search Kiyoomi's face and find him smiling softly. “I can’t—”

“Keep it,” Kiyoomi tells him. “I’m sick of wearing it.”

It’s a private airstrip, but it’s still risky, so he folds Kiyoomi in a hug and whispers fiercely, “I completely fucking love you.”

At cruising altitude, he takes the chain off his neck and slides the ring on next to the old house key. They clink together gently as he tucks them both under his shirt, two homes side by side.


End file.
